


Old Blood, New Blood

by Blondie54x



Series: Tales of the Old Blood [2]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: M/M, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-04
Updated: 2015-09-04
Packaged: 2018-04-19 00:55:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4726703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blondie54x/pseuds/Blondie54x
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Count turns up in New York to rekindle his affair with Illya, but how far is he willing to go to keep him?  And what happens when Napoleon finds out?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Old Blood, New Blood

(Author’s note: This story follows on directly from Dinner For Two)

 

Assignment reports: Napoleon emphatically loathed them, Illya regarded them as a necessary evil. The completion of each report was a testament to their dedication to duty and a cause for celebration - usually.

Illya Kuryakin didn’t particularly feel like celebrating. He was glad to complete this report and try to forget Sorrento and its attendant memories but somehow he failed to reach that state of elation that usually accompanied the closing of a case. He added the final full stop to the report with a flourish before glancing back over the pages, checking he had all the information, all the details of the operation, all the names of those involved.

One name wouldn’t be included, of course: Allesandro Diego Di Mecurio. Allesandro hadn’t been part of the operation – he’d been a post-assignment distraction for Illya. A one-night stand. A fling. A brief… romance.

He’d been sorry to leave Allesandro behind. It seemed wherever he went, he left someone behind – he should be used to it by now. Allesandro had been different, though. He’d touched a part of Illya that no one had before. Illya smiled at the memory. Oh, yes. He’d been touched and kissed and caressed and loved. He couldn’t remember feeling so cherished before. The entire night had been a whole new experience for him. He’d willingly given to Allesandro a thing he had given to no man – his virginity. He’d surrendered without a fight, freely giving away that which he’d guarded for so many years.

Guarded for whom? He’d often wondered who he thought he had been saving himself for. That special person, that someone who could make him supremely happy?

Once upon a time, he had thought it might be Napoleon. They worked so well together, blended perfectly, even started to spend some of their free time in each other’s company.   There was a time that he’d hoped things between himself and his partner would develop into something more than a working relationship. But it had never been on the cards. Each time that Illya advanced, Napoleon retreated, making it quite plain that their friendship could be nothing more than it was.

Illya had been disappointed but he got over it. He was used to disappointment. He had been disappointed to leave Allesandro at the airport, but time and distance were already sealing the rift he had felt in his soul.

He glanced at his watch and decided it was too early for lunch. Instead, he thought he’d make his way down to the gym and burn off a little excess energy. He stood and dropped the report in the out-tray before picking up his jacket.

Time to move on. Like so many times before, this case was closed.

 

_3 Months Later, Sorrento, Italy, 1963_

Allesandro Diego Di Mercurio did so loath chairing company meetings. They represented very little to him, were tedious, mind-numbing and very, very dull. But he had a duty, not just to himself but to the people who worked for him. Allesandro respected his workers a great deal. They represented the foundation of his wealth.

His fortune had been built up over many years, years that stretched back into the last century, for Allesandro was older than he appeared. A member of a quasi-human group that called themselves the Old Blood, Allesandro enjoyed all the benefits that went with the clan of vampires, including an enhanced life span.

Dependence on the blood of others was a small price to pay.

He lifted his gaze from the meeting’s agenda sitting before him, and stared at his Head of Finance, Umberto Felini, feigning interest as the rotund man gave a brief rundown on the annual accounts. The man was sweating profusely with nerves: excellent at his job, painfully poor at speaking to an audience – if twenty people could be regarded as such. He glanced around the large, mahogany table at the other occupants. Some, like Allesandro, appeared to be giving the accountant their full attention. Others were distracted, doodling on their ink blotters or endlessly tapping their pens against their note pads.

Allesandro looked back at the sweating man. One should appear interested at all times – even when your mind longed to be elsewhere. Felini’s voice droned on. “… once the final returns are in. At the moment, it would appear that profits are up by seven percent ….”

His oratory was interrupted by a firm knock at the heavy door. Irritated, Allesandro snapped, “Come in!”

The door pushed open and his manservant, Eduardo, entered. His sight fixed on his employer, his head bobbed in respect as he placed a blue folder on the table in front of Allesandro and stood quietly to one side. The Italian lifted the cover and glanced over the top sheet. He snapped it shut and returned his attention back to the men seated before him.

“Gentlemen, it is time for you to leave.”

Umberto exchanged puzzled glances with the other men around the table. “But the meeting….”

“Is over. I have important matters to attend to. You may leave your reports and I shall look them over later. Now please, go.” The gathering of men rose slowly, uncertainly. These meetings usually lasted two to three hours, not twenty minutes. The communiqué that Allesandro had received must have been very important indeed for him to call such an abrupt halt to the proceedings.

Allesandro waited until the room cleared, then turned to his manservant. “Well done, Eduardo. I was beginning to think my elusive Illyusha had vanished into thin air.”

“It took some time to pick up his trail, sir. The young man wasn’t quite what he’d professed to be. The details are all in the folder, sir.”

“I’ll read it in transit. Meanwhile, contact my pilot. Tell him I wish to fly to New York tomorrow. And book a room at the Pierre Hotel.”

Eduardo inclined his head. “Yes, sir. How long should I pack for, sir?”

“Pack for a month, initially. I’ll pick up anything else I need while I’m there.”

“Very well, sir. If that’s all, sir?”

“That’s all, Eduardo,” Allesandro said with a distracted wave of his hand. His manservant left and Allesandro’s mind turned to thoughts of his brief encounter with the young Russian. He often allowed himself the luxury of replaying that night; his memories were all he had to remind him. Over the last couple of months, when he’d begun to believe that he would never see him again, he cursed himself for not taking the opportunity to keep this man while he’d had the chance.

That would soon be remedied, now a new opportunity had presented itself. As one door closes, another door opens. Yes, this time he would make certain that Illyusha would stay by his side. There were ways, ways he had practiced only once before, on his dear beloved wife. That was long ago, at the turn of this century. She had died during the second world war, a victim of the air raids. Since then, Allesandro had been alone, travelling the world, amassing his fortune. Seeking, always seeking.

_But not for much longer. Soon, Illyusha, we shall be together._

He gathered his things together and left.

 

_1 week later, Sergio’s Restaurant, New York_

Illya Kuryakin sat patiently awaiting the arrival of his partner. Napoleon, as usual, was late. Illya supposed that Solo considered it his prerogative, being senior partner. Sometimes it seemed to Illya that he spent half his life waiting around for his partner in one way or another, one place or another, always at Napoleon’s whim. The CEA took him far too much for granted - and Illya allowed it, if he admitted the truth. Did Napoleon realise the hold he had over his partner? Did he even care? Either way, ignorance or contrivance, Illya waited patiently, like the obedient puppy that he was.

Lunch here was becoming a regular habit. They often dined out together but it seemed lately – since their return from Italy a few weeks ago – Napoleon had been seeking his company more often. It was odd, the way his partner had been more attentive since that assignment, inviting him to dinner or a movie, spending more of his free time with Illya. Illya Kuryakin was a cautious man, though, and viewed all of this with suspicion. He would never again be lulled into believing that Napoleon would want more from him than friendship. And if he did? Well, until that debatable time, Illya would remain cool and composed and allow Napoleon to make all the moves. He refused to get his hopes up.

He rested his chin on his upturned hand and read over the menu for the thousandth time. He was getting hungry, having gone without breakfast this morning. Napoleon had called to pick him up for work – too early for once – so he could make an early morning meeting with Mr Waverly. Illya had barely had a chance to catch a quick shower before his partner ousted him out of his apartment.

Illya ran over the menu again – the manicotti looked good. It would serve his partner right if Illya had ordered and eaten by the time he got here. If he didn’t eat soon, he’d faint with hunger. He smiled to himself. Maybe he could hang on till Napoleon got here before he passed out. What a nice little scene that would make.

Illya had been so engrossed in staring at the menu that he failed to notice the figure that had stopped by his table until a familiar, accented voice said, “Illyusha, is it really you?”

Illya’s head snapped up so quickly, he winced as the muscles in his neck painfully objected. “Allesandro,” he replied, almost too dumbfounded to speak. He stared at the Italian, at a loss for words.

Allesandro grinned. “Well? Shall I sit down or are you expecting company?”

Illya recovered his composure, shaking off his shock with a brisk shake of his head. He gestured to the empty chair opposite. “I’m sorry, please, sit. I am expecting a colleague but as usual, he seems to be running a little late.”

“Well, till your colleague arrives, I shall keep you company.” Allesandro ignored the indicated chair and chose the one immediately to Illya’s right.  

Illya suddenly felt uncharacteristically nervous again, like the first time he’d been alone with Allesandro. This man’s presence had a strange effect on him. “Erm, would you like a drink?” he asked the Italian, as he tried to catch the waiter’s attention.

“No, thank you. I shouldn’t stay too long. I noticed you sitting here as I passed the restaurant window. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I couldn’t possibly walk by without saying hello.”

“I’m glad you did. It’s good to see you, Allesandro. It’s been, what? Three months?”

“Eleven weeks and four days. I have an excellent memory.”

Illya smiled in amusement. “So it would seem.”

Allesandro’s dark eyes seemed to shine. “You look incredible, Illyusha.” He saw the blond glance about. “I’m sorry. I’m embarrassing you.”

“No, it’s just….” Illya smiled at his companion. “I’m not used to such compliments.”  

“That’s hard to believe, but I mean what I say. You do look good.” Allesandro leaned forward, resting both elbows on the table. “I can’t tell you how much it gladdens my heart to see you again. I’ve missed you, Illyusha.”

Illya’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “We spent one night together, Allesandro.”

“Ah, but what a night.” Allesandro laughed and Illya shared his laughter with him. Allesandro’s laughter faded to a fond smile. “I have not forgotten that night, my friend.”

“No,” Illya agreed quietly. He shook himself free of impending melancholy and asked, “What are you doing in New York? Work or pleasure?”

“Work, primarily, but if the opportunity for pleasure should present itself, I’m sure I can find the time.”

It was an invitation of sorts and Illya recognised it as such. He felt his body respond to the proximity of this man and was about to reply when the intimate mood was broken by Napoleon’s voice. “Illya?”

Illya almost jumped at the intrusion. He looked at his partner as Napoleon slipped into the chair opposite and noticed his disapproving frown.

“Napoleon, this is a friend of mine, Allesandro Di Mercurio. Allesandro, my colleague, Napoleon Solo.”

It seemed to Illya that something sizzled in the air between the two men, something unseen yet almost tangible, unspoken yet shared by both of them as Allesandro reached out a hand and Napoleon briefly shook it. Illya could almost feel the tension stretch between them, two alpha males gauging each other’s strengths. Napoleon was successfully trying to hide his distaste for the Italian and Illya hoped Allesandro didn’t notice. But Illya did. He’d become attuned to Napoleon’s little moods, no matter how hard he tried to cover them up.

“Sorry I’m late,” Napoleon said in Illya’s direction. “The Old Man called me in. He has a little job he’d like us to take care of tomorrow,” he added obscurely for Allesandro’s benefit. “Have you both ordered?”

Illya wasn’t fooled by his partner’s politeness – in his usual conniving way, Napoleon was trying to determine if Allesandro intended to stay for lunch. Illya hoped he wouldn’t. The barely suppressed hostility was already affecting his appetite.

It appeared Allesandro had the same propensity for Napoleon’s company as Napoleon had for his. “Unfortunately, I cannot stay. I was on my way to a meeting when I was happily waylaid by the sight of my friend here.” Allesandro laid a cool, possessive hand briefly on Illya’s, daring Solo to comment. “I could not pass by without saying hello.”

Napoleon’s fake smile looked genuine. “That’s a shame. I seldom get to meet Illya’s friends. Are you staying in the city or just passing through?” Again, Napoleon subtly assessing the situation with seemingly polite conversation; how long would this interloper be around?

“I’m just visiting.

“Oh? Staying long?”

“As long as it takes,” Allesandro replied with a calm smile.

Illya began to feel the strain and decided it was time to part these two before things degenerated from verbal sparring into open conflict. He interrupted them with a cough. “Well, it was nice to have seen you again, Allesandro. I hope you enjoy your stay in New York.”

Allesandro turned his eyes towards Illya. “I’m sure I shall – now I know your charming city has so much to offer.”

He stood and Illya rose from his chair, too, half wishing the Italian didn’t have to leave so soon but perhaps it was for the best, judging from Napoleon’s mood.

“I’m so pleased to have bumped into you like this, Illyusha. Imagine, a city this size. What are the odds?”

“What indeed,” Napoleon murmured. His partner and the interloper chose to ignore him. Or more likely, Napoleon suspected, were too caught up with each other’s presence to notice him at all.

Allesandro was picking up a napkin from the table with one hand as the other reached into his jacket and plucked a gold-colored pen from the inside pocket. Real gold, too, Napoleon keenly noted. This Allesandro had taste. That his partner might be to the Italian’s taste, too, only further deepened his dislike for the man. He watched dispassionately as Allesandro wrote something quickly on the napkin and handed it to Kuryakin.

“The phone number of the hotel I’m staying at. And my room number, if you wish to call by. I should very much like to see you again, Illyusha.”

_Illyusha!_ Napoleon’s teeth ground together each time the Italian used the diminutive. It was personal, impudent, implied a depth of feeling that Napoleon didn’t care to think about. Did Illya like being called Illyusha? If anyone should be calling Illya pet names, it should be himself, shouldn’t it? He was Illya’s partner, he was Illya’s friend.

Napoleon tried to control his annoyance, taking calming breaths until he had his jealously firmly back in its cage. He watched as Illya took the napkin and folded it, pushing it into his pocket. “Thank you. I’ll try to call,” Illya promised.

The two ex-lovers stood silently clasping hands for a moment and Napoleon suspected that if such a thing were socially acceptable, Allesandro would lean forward and give his partner a parting kiss. The very thought made his blood boil. Not the fact that these were two males, who’d obviously shared some very intimate moments, but by the very fact that Napoleon viewed Illya rather possessively.

Illya was his. _His_ partner, _his_ friend. _His._

He stared down at the table-top and tried hard to control the anger that bubbled beneath the thin veneer of outward calm - at least until Allesandro had left the restaurant.

His partner had re-seated himself and was studiously avoiding Napoleon’s stare. The waitress came and took their orders and still they sat in silence. Eventually, Napoleon said, “So, where did you meet your friend?”

“Sorrento.”

“Ah.”   Napoleon’s memory replayed their meeting at the airport and his anxiety returned with renewed vigour. Yes, he remembered, the man’s smell had been all over his partner, cloying and over familiar. “The, ah, Count you met in Italy?”

“Yes,” Illya replied, not wishing to get into a discussion about Allesandro. Napoleon didn’t like him – that much was plain. Illya refused to get into a debate on his taste in friends.

Napoleon, with his usual doggedness, asked, “Do you plan to meet him again?”

“Probably not, though I really don’t see what business it is of yours.”

Napoleon frowned at his snappish tone and Illya felt remorse for losing his cool. He tried to deflect his partner’s curiosity by asking, “What did Mr. Waverly want?”

“He wants us to go to Boston tomorrow and escort Alex Grafton back to New York for questioning.”

“Alex Grafton?   The suspected Thrush mole?”

“That’s the man.” Napoleon sat back as their waitress came over, precariously carrying their heavily laden plates on one arm. She placed them on the table and Napoleon immediately picked up his fork and speared a piece of pasta. He considered pursuing the subject of the Count but decided that it would spoil his appetite. He continued filling Illya in on his meeting with Waverly. “There’s a lot to implicate Grafton but no concrete evidence. Mr Waverly wants him back here so we can interrogate him, since we have the best facilities.” He finally popped the pasta into his mouth.

“Sounds simple enough,” Illya commented.

Napoleon had been in the process of spearing another piece of his lunch. He waved the pasta-laden fork menacingly in Illya’s direction. “You realise you’ve just jinxed the whole assignment by that last remark?”

Illya smiled indulgently and made a start on his own lunch.

 

Illya was saddened to learn how right Napoleon had been about jinxing assignments. He made a mental promise to himself never to make any such remarks again, for what should have been a simple one-day assignment had turned into a three-day, cross-county chase.

Grafton had friends. They had been ambushed at the airport and in the ensuing melee, Grafton had escaped. It had taken them two days to pick up his trail and another day to catch him up. They had finally arrived back in New York and while escorting their slippery prisoner through the car-park, had been waylaid yet again by Thrush operatives. Grafton had taken off, losing the two agents in the crowd. U.N.C.L.E.’s best two agents separated, each heading for different exits to increase their chances. Illya had been the one to find Grafton first, cornering him in a quiet corridor but Grafton’s friends were close behind and, after a brief struggle, Illya was forced to give up his prize – but not before he had managed to plant a homing device on the man.

Tired, sweaty and in need of rest, both men had parted company and made their way home to their relative apartments in the same block.

It was a relief for Illya to be home, surrounded by familiar, comforting objects: his books, his albums, his bed, still unmade from the last time it had been slept in.

Illya discarded his clothes on the way to the shower, leaving them where they dropped, anxious to warm and clean himself under the warm spray of water.

He was still keyed up, still a little hyper from all the activity. Exhaustion vied with adrenaline and he knew the excess chemical in his blood would never allow him to sleep. First he must expend a little energy and what better time to do it than in the shower.

He cleaned himself first, then lowered his hand to his keen cock, ready to give himself over to a little onanism, an act he’d indulged in far too often of late. Illya had little time for dating - his job saw to that - and Napoleon was taking up a great deal of his free time, lately. As usual, he would have to take care of things himself.

Or would he? A personal fantasy and his own right hand were no substitute for the real thing. And many of his fantasies had been about Allesandro lately.

Would the handsome Italian still be in town? He hadn’t said how long he’d be staying. Was it possible?

There was only one way to find out.

He switched off the shower and wrapped himself in his robe, heading towards the living room.

Where was that napkin that Allesandro had written the number on? He searched around the bureau drawers until he came across it.

He dialled the number and asked for the room that Allesandro had scrawled down. He heard the burr and click as a connection was made, then a deep, accented voice said, “Count Di Mecurio’s room.”

Eduardo. The name of his lover’s manservant popped into his head. He took a breath. “May I speak to Count Di Mercurio, please. This is Mr. Kuryakin.”

“One moment, sir.”

It was barely a heartbeat before Allesandro’s breathless voice was on the phone. “Illyusha….? Is it you?”

“It is indeed,” Illya replied, trying not to sound too keen. “I wondered if you might be free tonight?”

 

Illya moaned and rocked and plummeted into orgasm, as he felt Allesandro come inside him. He slowed his pace, sighing with pleasure, as the last tremors of his climax died down and his heartbeat began its slow return to normality. Carefully, he lifted himself off his prone lover’s softening cock and collapsed onto the bed beside him.  

From this position, he could survey the bed: it was a wreck. The sheets had been tossed aside as both men had wrestled to gain the upper hand. Impatient with need, Illya had wasted no time in getting Allesandro into bed as quickly as possible. Allesandro had barely managed to coax the impatient Russian into a little foreplay before his hungry lover had taken control. No time for niceties; Illya craved release.

Allesandro had been very compliant, allowing the blond to take the lead in this, their second encounter, knowing that there would be other times, other rendezvous. This he was certain of - he would not allow this man to slip away from him again. Not that he could if he tried. Allesandro knew everything about him; his address, his eating habits, his friends, his friends’ addresses – even his true profession. That Illya worked in enforcement was no real surprise. He was smart, his blond lover; lithe and agile, quick and responsive and with a body that could turn an angel’s thoughts to sin.

Ah, yes. The embodiment of perfection.

Allesandro stretched out a hand and stroked along the flat planes of his lover’s stomach. It pleased Allesandro that his lover had felt able to take the lead. The sight of him sitting astride his body, head thrown back in passion, as he’d lowered himself onto Allesandro’s cock, was as erotic a sight as he’d ever seen. Illya had set the pace and rhythm, drawing out the pleasure with carefully controlled muscles and Allesandro had lain passively, relishing this strength in his lover.

Illya leaned over and briefly kissed him before sliding out of bed and heading for the bathroom. He re-emerged minutes later and began to pick up his clothes.

Allesandro leaned over and plucked a cigarette from a marquetry-decorated case. He lit it and drew in a deep breath of aromatic smoke. “Must you go so soon?” Smoke curled from his lips as he spoke.

“I have work tomorrow,” Illya explained, pulling on his shorts.

“Ah, yes. Work. But Illyusha, must you rush away?” Illya was sitting on the edge of the bed, his attention on getting dressed, one leg in the pants and one leg out. Allesandro reached out to his shoulder and pulled him down onto the bed. Illya tilted back his head and the Italian kissed him, stroking gently across the bruised neck where his mouth had recently suckled.

“What is it you really do, Illyusha?” he asked quietly

Illya pulled away and sat up. “I told you.”

Allesandro was cold without his lover’s warmth.

Illya began to pull on his shirt but his lover’s arms encircled his waist, pulling him near, teasing his earlobes with an active tongue. “Are you a Russian spy? Tell me the truth,” he implored.

Illya turned around to face him, quirking an eyebrow. “If I tell you the truth, I will have to kill you. And I prefer you very much alive.” He ran a hand over the cooling surface of his lover’s skin. “Now, get dressed or get back in bed. You’re cold.”

Allesandro shrugged. “It’s an inherited idiosyncrasy, the curse of a low metabolism. In my family, the older you get, the colder you get.” Allesandro rose and pulled on a robe while his lover dressed.

Illya was slipping on his leather jacket, when Allesandro pulled him close. “There should be no secrets between us, Illyusha.” The dark eyes seemed to burn into his, pricking at his conscience. Illya turned and walked towards the window, staring out into the dark night.

The silence between them stretched on for minutes, while Allesandro waited patiently for his lover to speak. At last, Illya turned but didn’t leave his place by the window. “Have you heard of an organisation called the U.N.C.L.E.?”

“Yes, of course. Some sort of multi-national police force, isn’t it?” Allesandro had been surprised to read about Illyusha’s involvement with them in the file Eduardo had provided.

Illya stepped closer. “Close enough. I am an agent for this organisation.”

The Italian closed the distance between them, stretching out a hand to cup that beloved face. “And this colleague of yours, this Napoleon Solo, is he an agent, too?” Illya nodded and sighed as Allesandro’s hands tilted his chin up for a kiss. “I think your friend would not approve of our relationship.”

“He doesn’t need to know,” Illya assured him. Mentally, he had already planned his deceit; a shower after their liaisons and a change of clothes would ensure that Napoleon’s sensitive nose would not pick up Allesandro’s distinct cologne again, as he had at the airport in Sorrento.

Allesandro’s hands had begun to meander around the outside of his clothing and lllya could already feel his body respond. Determined not to be side-tracked, he pulled away. “I really must go.”

Allesandro kissed the high forehead. “When shall I see you again?”

“I’ll call you. In my occupation, it does not do to make plans.”

“That is not an encouraging thought, my love.” Allesandro reached out and caught his lover’s hand. “If I had my way, I would lock you away and keep you safe with me forever.”

Illya grinned. “I have had enough of being locked away, thank you very much. Even your delightful company would not be enough.”

“But I can offer you so much more, Illyusha. Everything I have is yours. There is so much I should like to share with you.”

“I don’t need your money, Allesandro.”

Money?   Allesandro hadn’t been thinking about money, though he’d be willing to give half his fortune to Illyusha, if that was what it would take to have his lover by his side. No, Allesandro had been thinking of something else – something more precious, something more… permanent. A gift few are offered – baptism into the Old Blood. If Illyusha could only be made to see the benefits, experience the pleasure that goes with such a bequest.

“There is more to life than money, Illyusha. Though I must admit, it helps.”

Illya smiled crookedly at Allesandro. His lover could never understand Illya’s distain for his wealth. They were at different ends of the social spectrum. Yet, Illya couldn’t help but be attracted to this man. He would enjoy it while he could: from experience, happiness was a phantom that disappeared as soon as one tried to hold onto it.   “I must go,” he said, pulling away.

Allesandro walked with him to the door of the hotel room, exchanged a kiss and exacted a promise from Illya that he would soon return. Illya smiled his promise and left.

 

Napoleon Solo frowned as he covertly studied the back of his partner, and not for the first time this morning. Oblivious, the happy Russian continued to flick through the filing cabinet in the corner of the room, humming quietly to himself.

Was it possible, Solo wondered, that Thrush had managed to plant a doppelganger?   His partner’s open display of cheerfulness was unsettling, and so out of character for the dour Russian. He should be his usual reticent self after last night’s failure to capture Grafton. Such a fiasco usually sent his partner into a deep, brooding silence. This reaction was most unexpected.

Napoleon tried to get on with his report but Illya’s humming was really starting to irritate.

“Must you do that,” Napoleon snapped, his nerves finally getting the better of him.

“Do what?” the Russian returned, pausing mid-tune.

“That infernal racket. Must you hum?”

“Coltrane is not an infernal racket.”

“Not when he played it, maybe. What’s up with you today, anyhow? I thought, after losing Grafton yesterday, you’d be pretty ticked off.”

“I didn’t lose him, I managed to plant a bug on him. I know exactly where he is at this moment in time.” Illya pulled out a file and dropped it on his desk as he sat down, sparing Napoleon a brief, smug smile. He flipped the file open, ignoring his partner’s continued stare.

“So, what happened last night?” Napoleon asked quietly, leaning back in his chair.

“I told, you. Grafton jumped me in the alley....”

“No, I mean afterwards. I called by to see how you were after you reported in but you weren’t at home.”

At first, Napoleon thought his friend wasn’t going to reply. He was about to repeat the question, when Illya said, “I spent the evening with a friend.”

“A friend?” Napoleon repeated. He sat forward, the hairs on his neck suddenly bristling. “Not your Italian Count?”

Illya sighed inwardly. Allesandro had been right; Napoleon would never approve of their liaison. It was time to deflect suspicion. “No,” Illya lied. “I called someone I know.”

Relieved but intrigued, Napoleon smirked. “Oh? I happen to know you don’t own a little black book, Illya.” Who could his secretive friend have called at such short notice?

“I have a small but select number of acquaintances, Napoleon. I don’t need an aide-mémoire, thank you very much, unlike some, whose ‘little black book’ is the size of a New York telephone directory,” he teased.

Illya tried to get on with his work but he could feel Napoleon’s gaze assessing him. After a few moments, Napoleon asked, “Anyone I know?”

“No.” Illya felt the color rise in his cheeks and kept his face down.

When he felt it fade, he looked up at his partner, rocking back on his chair with a faint look of amusement on his face.

Illya opened his mouth to say something, when the door slid open and Heather walked in. Pausing in the uncomfortable silence, she told them, “Don’t let my presence stop you. You two go right ahead discussing whichever female is the flavour of the week. I just came by to collect the update on the Grafton Affair for Mr Waverley.”

Napoleon grinned as he passed over the file with their notes.

“So, who are you talking about?” Heather asked, with that uncanny feminine foresight.

“Actually, I haven’t managed to find out her name yet,” Solo replied, head nodding pointedly in his friend’s direction.

“Oh?” Heather hitched up her skirt and seated herself on a corner of the Russian’s desk, fixing him with a questioning stare. Napoleon hadn’t been the only one to notice his partner’s odd mood today. “So, who is it? Someone here? Karen in the labs,” she guessed, leaning nearer to whisper confidentially, “she’s had the hots for you for months.” Kuryakin shook his head. “Elaine from the library. I saw you talking to her in the commissary the other day. No? Siobhan, you were walking out with her through reception, last week.”

“Does every woman I talk to come under suspicion?” he asked pleasantly. It suited his purpose not to disabuse them of the notion that his good mood was down to a woman. The less Napoleon knew about his relationship with Allesandro, the better. “Besides, no U.N.C.L.E. employee is involved,” he said cryptically. “And you should know by now, I don’t talk. Even under torture.”

Heather suddenly leaned forward, hooking a finger in the top of the sweater he wore. Kuryakin clutched at the neck to stop her tugging it down, glowering at her.

“Ah, ha. I thought so,” she crowed. “You have a hickey, don’t you? That’s why you’re wearing the sweater.”

“Don’t you have anything better to do?” He asked with a forced smile before turning over a page in the open file and pointedly ignoring her.

“Not really, but seeing as I’m not wanted, I’ll get back to my office.” She slid off the desk, casting a wink in Solo’s direction and saying, “Let me know if you get any more details.”

Napoleon’s mood seemed to change after Heather revealed the mark on Illya’s neck. It was tangible evidence that Illya had been indulging in more than a little smooching. Napoleon was irritated to feel that bubble of jealousy rise in his chest, yet again. He refused to acknowledge it, denying his resentment.

Napoleon watched Heather close the door, then said to his partner, “Who did you go out with last night?”

Illya wasn’t inclined to tell his partner the details. “That’s none of your business. Suffice to say, I had a very pleasant evening.”

“So it would seem. You shouldn’t let her mark you that way. It’s... unhealthy.”

“Unhealthy?”

The phone rang, interrupting their debate. Napoleon picked it up. “Solo here.” He listened quietly for a few moments. “Okay, we’ll be right there.” He replaced the hand-set. “No rest for the wicked. Mr. Waverly says they have a fix on Grafton’s bug.”

 

After the chase Grafton had led them on the day before, his final capture was almost an anti-climax. Grafton, apparently smug following his evasion of capture, was fast asleep when the agents tracked him down. This time, they managed to keep and deliver their burden without any trouble.

No sooner had they dropped him off at Interrogation, than Mr Waverly assigned them another case. This one took them into the wilderness of Yellowstone Park, following the trail of a renegade Thrush scientist on the run. It took them considerable effort to locate and safely retrieve their target and they arrived home three days later, tired, filthy and bruised. Mark Slate met the U.N.C.L.E. jet at the airport and drove them both home.

Due to the nature of their work, section two agents were considered potential targets. Though not compulsory, most preferred to reside in the security of one of the U.N.C.L.E.-owned buildings.

Napoleon and Illya lived in different buildings on the same block. Napoleon found it convenient to live close by to his partner. Especially so, since his partner, distrustful of banks, often kept substantial sums of cash hidden in his apartment. Napoleon found it more convenient to borrow money from his friend, rather than make the tedious journey to the bank. Besides, Illya knew he would repay it.

And so, following their return from this latest assignment, Napoleon found himself following his dirt-covered partner into his apartment building. He needed some cash to pick up his suit in the morning from the cleaners. Mr Del Floria, while employed by the same organization, still insisted on cash payments for his work. Napoleon suspected it was to do with the number of unclaimed suits – some agents didn’t come back.

They entered the foyer of their building where the doorman, seemingly oblivious to the dirt and blood covering the two men, stopped them as they entered.

“Mr.K? These came for you a couple of days ago,” he said, holding a bunch of roses out towards the two men. “I put them in water till you got back.” He smiled as the agent took them and eyeing them with suspicion. “I checked them over. They’re safe,” the concierge added. “Here’s your mail, too.”

“Thank you, Joe,” Illya replied belatedly. Napoleon picked up the mail and followed Illya to the elevator.

“Someone sent you flowers?” he asked as they entered the car.

“So it would seem.” Illya let the blooms hang down by his side and punched his floor number, aware of Napoleon’s curiosity.

“Who are they from?” Napoleon prodded.

“Someone who appreciates my company.”

“I appreciate your company but I wouldn’t send you flowers. Hardly appropriate for a man, don’t you think?” Napoleon leaned against the side of the steel wall. “Now, had it been me, I’d have sent a book. Or a jazz album. Something I know you’d like,” he said softly, sounding almost wistful to Illya’s ears.

“I like flowers,” he said defensively.

A ping signalled their arrival at Illya’s floor and Illya waited impatiently for the doors to open so he could affect his escape from Napoleon’s close proximity.

Illya’s apartment was cold. Napoleon wasn’t sure if he preferred it that way or was too frugal with his heating bills. He dropped tiredly into a chair, while Illya walked into the kitchen.

Kuryakin dropped the flowers in the sink, pushed in the plug and ran in some cold water. He plucked the card from the flowers and tucked it into his pocket, before filling the kettle for tea.

“Do you want a drink?” he called to his partner.

“Not unless you have something stronger than coffee.”

Illya glanced down at the empty bottle of Scotch poking out of the trash.

“I’m afraid the choice is coffee or tea. Or water. Take your pick.”

“Think I’ll take my leave, if it’s all the same to you. After today, I could do with something a little more fortifying.” He stood and shuffled his feet. “Erm, before I go, ah.…”

“Oh, of course.” Illya walked over to the corner of the room and lifted up the edge of the carpet. Napoleon watched with amusement as Illya pulled up a loose floorboard and removed a small bundle of notes. He peeled off a few and put the bundle and the carpet back into place. “There,” he said, handing the notes to Napoleon.

Napoleon shook his head and laughed. “I sure hope this place doesn’t go up in flames one day.”

Illya shrugged. “It’s only money. There are more precious things in life that are irreplaceable.”

That there are, Napoleon thought, giving his friend a fond smile and a gentle squeeze to his arm. “I’ll pay you back at the weekend.”

Illya saw Napoleon to the door and locked it behind him, then hurriedly took the small envelope out of his pocket and read the card.

It was in Allesandro’s neat script, short and simple.

_I’ve missed you, Illyusha._

_Please call me when you get home._

_Allesandro_

_X_

 

Illya glanced at his watch: 11.35 p.m. It was too late, though he suspected Allesandro wouldn’t give a damn about the time. Nevertheless, Illya needed to sleep and he wouldn’t do much of that if he paid a visit to his secret lover at this time of night.

He would call Allesandro in the morning and arrange to meet him for dinner.

 

Illya slipped on his favorite jacket and checked his appearance in the mirror. He smoothed down his bangs, pushed them to one side, then smoothed them down again. It would have to do. His hair always had a mind of its own. Waverly disapproved of its length and Napoleon disapproved of its lack of style. Allesandro loved his hair, even tried to encourage him to grow it longer but the current hippie trend for over-long hair was a little too Bohemian, for Illya’s tastes. Napoleon would definitely disapprove of that!

He was feeling a little guilty about Napoleon. Twice in the last fortnight, Illya had turned down his invitation to a night on the town and tonight would be the third time. Illya had cried off again, saying he had a ‘previous engagement’. Napoleon had nodded sagely, with a smirk on his face, murmuring something about someone being a ‘lucky lady’.

Illya did nothing to disabuse him of this notion, though this ongoing deception regarding his relationship with the Italian was becoming a strain. He knew only too well of Napoleon’s disapproval for Allesandro, though he didn’t understand his reasons why. Napoleon simply disliked him and Allesandro, likewise, disliked his partner.

There seemed to be an underlying mistrust between the two, as if both shared a nasty secret about each other that they were unwilling to share with Illya.

There was nothing to do about it, except to ride it out and trust the outcome to fate, as he had so often in the past.

He began to walk to the door but was stopped by the trilling of his communicator. Impatiently, he twisted the top and barked, “Kuryakin here.”

“Illya…?” Napoleon. His voice sounded strained.

“Napoleon?” His partner was supposed to be out on a date, after Illya had declined Napoleon’s invitation to a night at one of the city’s more exclusive clubs. Napoleon had, instead, called up a waitress he’d met a few days ago. “What’s wrong?” Illya asked.

“Listen, partner, I’m sorry to call you. I got into a little trouble. Do you think you could you pick me up?”

“Where are you?”

“An alley, down the side of Tropical Nights.”

Illya glanced at his watch. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” He closed the channel, not wanting to waste any time, and hurried to his car.

 

Right on time, Illya’s car pulled up to the top of the alley and Napoleon limped out of the dark to meet him.

He was a mess. His lip had been split and was swollen on one side; his jacket sleeve was ripped at the shoulder and his knuckles were red and inflamed.

Illya was by his side as soon as the car stopped. He put an arm round Napoleon’s waist to help him to the car but Napoleon pulled back with a hiss of pain.

“Ribs?” Illya asked.

“Just bruising,” Napoleon replied.   He allowed Illya to maneuver him into the passenger seat and sat back, grateful for once, to be in his partner’s rust-bucket. Illya got in the other side and turned to give Napoleon a quick appraisal.

Illya sighed in frustration. “I hope the other guy looks worse.”

“Well, he was definitely uglier.” Napoleon tried to smile but the pain in his split lip stopped it before it fully formed.

Illya started the car and headed for his partner’s apartment, while Napoleon rested his head back on the seat and relaxed.

As Illya drove in silence, Napoleon closed his eyes and felt a calm come over him as the tension in him diminished. Only Illya had that effect on him. There was something restful about being in his friend’s company, something tranquil. Illya was a soothing balm, a comforting salve for his blistered soul. He’d come to realize, lately, how much he depended on Illya. Not just in the field, guarding his back but on a personal level, as guardian of his heart.

But Illya would never know how much he meant to Napoleon, for Napoleon never intended to tell him. He couldn’t take that gamble: that way lurked danger and Napoleon would never put Illya at risk.

Lately, however, despite Napoleon’s best intentions, he couldn’t help but imagine how things might be between himself and his proud Russian partner. More than a partner, Napoleon thought. Yes, Illya was much more. Napoleon simply loved being in his company. It made him feel… happy.

Illya chose that moment to glance over at his partner and noticed the almost serene look on his face. “She must have been worth it, your date?” he asked casually.

Napoleon kept his eyes closed as he replied, “No, not really. For one thing, I dislike deceit. She omitted to tell me that she had a husband at home. Or rather, not at home, as it turned out. He’d followed us to the club.”

“He did all this damage?” Illya said aghast, knowing Napoleon’s karate skills were exemplary.

“He and his two buddies.”

Illya simply tutted and turned his attention to the night traffic.

Napoleon insisted he would be okay, once they’d reached his apartment building. Illya insisted on coming up, just in case.

Napoleon’s fingers were too swollen to hold his door key, so Illya took control and let them in.

Illya took his jacket off and dropped it on the chair. “Sit down,” Illya ordered his partner.

Napoleon carefully lowered himself onto his sofa and sat patiently as Illya helped him off with his own jacket. Illya stood abruptly and walked away.

“What are you doing?” Napoleon asked his partner’s back as he disappeared into the bathroom.

Illya came back carrying a first-aid kit and sat by his side. “Isn’t that obvious.” He opened the lid and pulled out a bottle.

“You don’t have to stay. I can do... ow, ow, ow…” Napoleon complained as Illya applied a liberal amount of iodine to the cut on his lip. His pained expression as he looked at his partner did not reflect his feelings for this man. “Didn’t you have a date tonight?” Napoleon reminded him, while at the same time hoping his partner would stay.

“It can wait. You can’t.” Illya glanced at his watch. He should have been at the restaurant over half an hour ago. “I’ll just call my date and explain.” Illya moved into the hallway and Napoleon heard him pick up the phone and dial a number. He tried hard to listen to the conversation, straining to hear if Illya mentioned a name but his intensely private friend kept his words subdued. After a few minutes, Illya returned and sat back by Napoleon’s side to finish his task.

“What did you tell your friend?” Napoleon asked, as much to distract himself from Illya’s ministrations as from curiosity.

“Just that I had to work.” Illya finished dabbing at the cut on his lip, clearing away the encrusted blood. He turned his attention to Napoleon’s hand. “There’s not much I can do for this,” he said, rubbing gently over the bruised knuckles. “You’re cold,” Illya said as Napoleon gently pulled his hand out of Illya’s grasp. “I’ll turn up the heating. Then you can take off your shirt. I’d like to check your ribs.”

Napoleon sighed. “My ribs are fine. They’re all there. You can count them, if you like.”

“I intend to.” Illya rose and turned up the thermostat. “Shirt. Off,” he commanded with a graceful gesture of the hand.

Napoleon unfastened the buttons with his good hand and started to pull the shirt off his shoulders. He hissed with pain and Illya immediately came to his aid, gently easing the material off his back. The bruises were not yet in full flower.   A large area around Napoleon’s right side was red and raw looking. Illya knew from experience that they would be black and blue by the morning.

“Napoleon, this has got to hurt? Do you have any aspirin?”

“I have something better.” He gestured towards the bar. “Twenty-year-old single malt whiskey.”

“That won’t kill the pain.”

“No, but it will numb it for a while. Help yourself to vodka, you know where it is.”

Illya did, pouring a generous portion for Napoleon and a modest glass for himself, just to keep his partner company. Napoleon drank it down like it was fruit juice, refilled his glass and tossed that one down his throat just as quickly. He sighed as the alcohol hit his blood stream.

“What a night,” Napoleon said, toeing off his shoes and lifting his feet to rest on the coffee table. He leaned forward to refill his empty glass. “Women! Totally unreliable. Why can’t they all be like you: dependable and honest. You’ve never let me down,” he said, gesturing carelessly in his partner’s direction.   His drink sloshed over the glass, landing on Illya’s hand. Napoleon leaned across to brush it off at the same time as Illya did. Their fingers collided and Napoleon yanked his hand back as though he’d touched a bare electric wire. He saw Illya’s frown and looked away, embarrassed. “Sorry.” He took another deep slug from the whiskey glass.

“Maybe I should go,” Illya said.

“No!” He needed his partner here, just a little longer, just till the alcohol’s anaesthetic effect kicked in and he could sleep securely. “Please. Stay a little longer. Put on the television, if you like.” Napoleon knew Illya couldn’t resist that offer. Illya had never owned a television, and always seemed hypnotized by the small set whenever he was at Napoleon’s.

Eventually, a combination of the alcohol and the drone of voices coming from the set lulled Napoleon into sleep. It took Illya twenty minutes to notice, so engrossed was he in a quiz show on the television.

He gently lifted Napoleon’s feet off the coffee table and lowered them onto the sofa. He retrieved a blanket from the bedroom and covered his partner. Napoleon was too deeply asleep to notice the lights being dimmed and the set suddenly being silenced.

Illya crept out, locking the door behind him.

He paused at the entrance of Napoleon’s building and looked outside. A steady downpour beat against the glass panes in the doors. His car was parked across the road, so he would have to make a dash for it.

He pushed the door open and trotted down the steps but as he reached the bottom, his pace slowed. Years of caution had sharpened the Russian’s instincts and at this moment, his instincts told him he was being watched. He glanced around, squinting to see into the shadows and doorways.

There was a sudden clatter of an overturned trashcan to his right and his hand quickly rose inside his jacket for his gun. He relaxed instantly as a bedraggled ginger cat appeared from the spilled litter and sauntered past with an air of nonchalance.

Illya relaxed, mentally chastising himself for his skittish behaviour. He looked around, hoping no one had seen his overreaction, got into his car and drove to his apartment at the end of the block.

As his car pulled away, a dark-clad form appeared from the shadows. Allesandro, his wet hair plastered to his forehead as the rain continued to spill from the dark skies, watched his lover’s departure with a frown.

This building was home to Illya’s partner, Solo. Allesandro had been on his way over to leave a message for Illya at his apartment when he’d spotted the Russian’s car parked outside Solo’s building.

What had Illyusha been doing here, when he’d said he was working? Even from this distance, Allesandro had been able to smell alcohol on him when he came out.

But worse, far worse, was the pervading smell of Solo, clinging to Illya, marking territory that Allesandro had claimed as his own. This other man had brushed against his lover, touched him, shared his space.

Allesandro shook, partly from rage and partly from fear, fear that he would lose Illyusha. But his rage was directed towards the American. This Solo was a threat. He had some sort of hold over Illyusha, he was sure. Why else would his lover be so devoted to the man? Allesandro knew this Solo and recognized him for what he was. Did Solo wish to make a claim on Illyusha, too?

“No…” Allesandro denied. He had wanted to take things slowly, explain things to him, bring him over by degrees. This was not the sort of thing one could hurry. Now, his plans would have to be brought forward before the American could interfere.

He walked back towards his car, parked discreetly around the corner, and slipped inside the back. He met his manservant’s enquiring gaze in the rear view mirror. “Eduardo, I need you to obtain something for me. A sleeping draft, of some sort. Something quick, something tasteless.”

“Yes, sir,” Eduardo replied, starting up the car. New York was a wonderful city, thought Eduardo. He’d discovered that practically anything could be bought here, from the rarest artefacts to nuclear devices. All one needed was sufficient quantities of money. And his employer was well endowed in that department.

He pulled away from the curb and headed back to the hotel.

 

Illya drove down the ramp of the underground car park, relieved to be home. It had been a tiring day, and Illya planned to stay in and relax, maybe play his guitar.   A little music was balm to his soul. He often wondered, if his life had been less complicated and set on a different path, whether he could have pursued a career in music.

As he walked towards the lift, his musings were interrupted by a familiar voice calling his name.  

“Illyusha!”

Kuryakin spun to face Allesandro as he trotted over. “Allesandro, what are you doing here?” Illya said, when the Italian was standing before him.

“I was sorry we missed our date the other night. I waited for your call but…I guess you were busy.” The Italian stood, holding a bottle aloft, with a hopeful look on his face. “I thought we might share a drink together.”

Illya took a step closer. “I’m sorry. I was going to call you tomorrow. I’m afraid I already have plans tonight.”

Allesandro looked down at the bottle he held. “Oh,” he said, sounding disappointed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think…”

“Allesandro…”

“I shouldn’t have assumed too much,” Allesandro interrupted. “It’s just, I’m going back to Italy soon. I thought we might spend a little time together before I leave.”

It was an endearing sight, the contrite Italian, staring down at his highly polished shoes. Illya sighed. He hadn’t planned on company. And Allesandro had been taking up a lot of his time, lately. Still, the Italian had charms that were hard to deny. “Come on,” Illya said, turning back to the elevator. He glanced down at the bottle in his lover’s hand. “It would be a shame to waste such a fine wine.”

Allesandro followed the blond into the elevator car. “I promise I shall not stay long.”

Illya smiled and his look held a promise. “Long enough, I hope.”

“Oh, yes, Illyusha,” Allesandro replied as he reached out a finger to stoke along Illya’s pale cheekbones. “Long enough.”

Illya closed the door to his apartment and turned to kiss his lover. Allesandro broke away, frowning, as he leaned in close and inhaled. That other man’s scent was on Illyusha again. Allesandro’s face became tight with annoyance.

“What’s wrong?” Illya asked at the change in attitude.

“Your partner, I can smell him on you.”

Illya sniffed at his sleeve and shrugged, unable to detect anything. “Napoleon’s cologne can be very overpowering sometimes. He leaves an invisible trail wherever he goes.”

Allesandro rubbed his face against his lover’s. “Shower for me, sweet. I hate the smell of another man on you. Please, love….?” Allesandro pleaded.

Illya pushed away with a sigh and headed for the bathroom, discarding his clothes on the way. Allesandro removed his jacket and set the wine bottle on the table. “Where are your glasses?” he called towards the bathroom.

Illya’s head appeared, his hair dishevelled from disrobing. “Kitchen, top cupboard on the left.” The blond mop disappeared from view as Allesandro headed towards the kitchen. When he returned, two wine glasses and a corkscrew in hand, he could hear the shower running and Illya singing softly over the sound of the rushing water.

Allesandro set the glasses next to the bottle of wine and removed a small paper sachet from his shirt pocket. He ripped it open and emptied the powdery contents into one of the glasses. He pulled the cork on the bottle and filled both glasses, swirling the one with the powder to gently to mix the contents.  

He waited for his lover to finish his shower and tried to control the jitters he felt inside. This was the right thing to do, he was sure. He must do this now, before it was too late, before he lost his nerve.

Allesandro had always prided himself on two things; being a good judge of men and his ability to plan ahead. At the moment, his judgement concerning his lover was ambiguous at best, and his plans were not proceeding as he’d originally anticipated.

He had been used to dealing with men motivated by money or greed. Those people were easily swayed, readily bought. Illyusha was something new to him: a man of principles, a man with a sense of duty, of loyalty. Illyusha would not be enticed or bribed. Allesandro needed to take a different tack.

He would give Illya the gift of new life – and worry about the consequences later. He hadn’t planned to take this step so soon. He had hoped to explain about his kind, show Illyusha the benefits that went with this new life: the enhancement of the senses, the increased longevity, the augmented sex. But before the pleasure, must come the pain. Transformation was a gradual process, a restructuring of the body that took a few weeks and involved some discomfort. It was a rebirth in every sense.

He looked up as Illya entered the room, wearing his bathrobe. The blond walked slowly over to him, wearing that coy expression that Allesandro knew was a sham. Illyusha was so sensual, even when he wasn’t trying.

Allesandro settled back on the sofa and picked up a glass of wine, offering to Illya as he approached. “A toast. To us, my love.”

Illya took the wine and asked, “What is it?”

“From the family estate. I helped make this particular vintage. When you drink this, you shall have a part of me forever.”

Illya put the glass aside without drinking and straddled Allesandro. “There is a part of you that I should like now.” He leaned in for a kiss but Allesandro stopped him with gentle pressure to the shoulder. Illya frowned. Allesandro was ready for this, he knew, he could feel the evidence through the fabric of his pants.

“What’s wrong?” Illya asked.

“We should talk,” the Italian said quietly.

Illya’s eyes narrowed at the serious tone. “About?”

“Us. Illyusha, I want you to come away with me.”

Illya slipped off Allesandro’s thighs and sat beside him. His face showed no emotion but Allesandro could tell that he held his frustration in check.

“Allesandro, you know that’s not possible.” He picked up the glass and raised it to his lips. Allesandro held his breath, waiting for Illya to drink, disappointed when his lover lowered it without taking a sip. “We’ve talked about this before. I thought you understood.”

“I understand that things can change. I know they can change. I can offer you so much more than.…” he gestured around the sparse apartment, “Than this. You deserve so much more, Illyusha.”

“I am happy with what I have. What I do.” Illya stood suddenly, placing the glass on the coffee table with such force Allesandro thought that it would break. Illya softened at the look of anguish on his lover’s face. “This is the difference between us, Allesandro. You are free to come and go as you choose - I am not. I have my work. It’s important to me.”

Allesandro stood and cupped his beloved’s face. “Yes, you do. But you risk your life needlessly, and for what? Give it up, before it kills you. Hand in your resignation, come with me. You’ll never need to work again or risk your life for someone else’s cause. I’ll look after you. We can travel, go wherever you wish, I shall feed you, clothe you, keep you….”

“Like a pet? No, Allesandro,” Illya interrupted. He pulled the cool hands away from his face. “I like what I do. I get satisfaction from knowing I can make a difference.” He took a step away, back towards the sofa. He swept up the glass and swallowed the wine in quick gulps, needing the fortification.

“Allesandro, this isn’t going to work. We have had this conversation before and it is becoming tiresome. We come from different worlds, you and I. We are too dissimilar.” Illya looked down, unable to look the Italian in the face. “I think you should go home, back to Italy.”

“Not without you.”

Illya shook his head. “You don’t understand.…”

Allesandro crossed the room in quick strides, his features hardening with anger. “No, Illyusha, it is you who does not understand! Things have gone too far! I cannot leave you now!”

Illya had been about to reply when Allesandro’s visage suddenly split into two. Illya blinked, shook his head, trying to clear the anomaly but his sight refused to clear. There was a strange echo whenever the Italian talked, as if he were speaking in a cavern. Illya rubbed at his eyes and tried to move but his balance was impaired and he fought to hold himself upright, using the wall for support.

“Illyusha?” Allesandro’s voice came close to his ear. Illya tried to look at him but his body refused his brain’s command. He felt himself pulled away from the wall and into a tight embrace. Allesandro’s voice whispered, “Don’t be afraid, Illyusha. It will be over soon.”

He realised belatedly that something was wrong and fought to free himself from the hold that tightly encircled his upper body. It was of little use – he felt himself quickly succumbing to the void.

Allesandro clutched his struggling lover tightly to him, until he felt the last of Illya’s resistance drain from his body and the blond head slumped limply against his shoulder.

He picked the unconscious figure up and laid it carefully on the bed, brushing soft bangs from a damp forehead.

Allesandro sat on the side of the bed and watched the sleeping figure for a moment, still fighting the internal debate inside his head. It was immoral, unquestionably selfish on his part, underhand and sneaky. He was appalled by his own actions, but felt unable to stop.

His decision was made - as he knew it would be, otherwise why would he have come here tonight?

He gently tipped Illya’s head back, exposing the vein there, and licked along the surface of the neck. His canines extended and he pressed the sharp points against the skin. Blood welled up from the punctures and flooded his mouth, causing his passion to raise his temperature. His erection throbbed painfully at the first taste of his lover but he ignored the insistent pulsing of his cock. Those needs would have to be dealt with later - he could never take advantage of his lover in an unconscious state. _But you already have_ … a voice whispered in his mind. Out of necessity, he argued with his conscience.

He took his fill and gently licked across the wound, sealing the breach.

His heart was racing at the thought of his next move. This next step – the exchange of blood - would change Illyusha irrevocably.

Bringing his wrist to his mouth, he bit lightly into his own flesh near the base of his hand and quickly turned it over to within an inch of the sleeping Russian’s mouth. He watched as one drop then another, quickly pattered between the rose-hued lips, and waited patiently.

The sleeping figure stirred slightly, the blond head shifting on the pillow. The pink tip of his tongue flicked out to lick at a drop of crimson moisture that had caught on his lower lip. Allesandro lowered his arm until his wrist was in contact with the Russian’s lips, feeling his own life’s essence slowly seeping into the fleshy mouth. On the pale throat, the Adam’s apple bobbed as the first of the crimson liquid was unconsciously swallowed down. Allesandro smiled to himself. No turning back now. The damage was done.

The agent’s forehead creased into a frown, as if troubled by a disturbing dream. The blond head turned slightly away and Allesandro’s wrist followed, keeping the slow flow of blood oozing between parted lips. Another swallow. The agent whimpered low in his throat and Allesandro’s head tipped back in pleasure as he felt his lover’s tongue lap unconsciously against his skin. Still deeply asleep, Illya began to suck lightly at the wound drawing more of the sickly sweet essence into his system.

After a few more swallows, Allesandro pulled gently away, watching the tongue chase the last traces of blood from the lips.

The temptation to stay was strong but the drug he had used would leave Illyusha with little memory of the night’s events. It would not do for him to be around when he awoke. Instead, Allesandro stepped away and slipped quietly out of the door.

Outside the bedroom, he leaned back against the wall and held up his wrist to inspect the self-inflicted wound. The punctures were small and shallow. Too deep, and the flow of blood would have been overwhelming. Allesandro touched the reddened flesh around the tiny holes, still able to feel the tingle were those precious lips had been.

Pushing away from the wall, he picked up his jacket and headed for the door, a gentle smile on his face.

 

“Illya!”

Kuryakin came awake with a jolt, clutching at his throbbing head as the sudden movement jarred his skull. “Napoleon?” he said thickly. “W’s going on?” He still felt groggy with sleep, his thoughts as slow as molasses.

“When I knocked you didn’t answer, I had to let myself in. Did you know you’re alarms weren’t set?” He frowned down at his partner, who seemed to be having difficulty waking up. “Were you drinking last night?”

“Last night?”

“Last night. Comes between yesterday afternoon and this morning.” He watched his partner with concern as he rubbed hands over dishevelled blond bangs. “Are you okay?”

“Mmm. Thirsty,” he replied simply.

“Dehydration. I’ll start some coffee. Try and drag that disreputable body of yours out of bed and take a shower. Maybe that will sober you up.”

Illya watched as Napoleon turned and headed for the kitchen, then tried to summon up the energy to get to the bathroom. He managed to stand on the third try and walked slowly to the bathroom, shutting the door firmly behind him.

He sat on the toilet, too tired to stand, and tried to recall last night’s events. Napoleon assumed he’d been drinking. It would certainly explain his current condition. He hadn’t had that much – had he? Last night was hazy, but he remembered up to the point when Allesandro had called by with a bottle of wine. And then…then.…

Illya shook his head - he couldn’t remember Allesandro leaving. Damn! He’d obviously drunk more than his share of that bottle.

Illya rose from his seat and went to the sink to wash his hands.

The sight of himself in the mirror above the washbasin hit him like a slap to the face; pale, drawn and dishevelled. On his neck, a small bruise, like the ones Allesandro left whenever they made love.

Damn it! He must have been laying on that side otherwise Napoleon would have seen it and while he could take his partner’s censuring for thinking him hung-over, he was in no shape to deal with Solo’s anger if he found out about his liaison with Allesandro.

Too tired to shower, Illya washed at the sink and hung a towel over the offending evidence before exiting the bathroom. He scurried past the kitchen and into his bedroom, pulling a turtleneck from a drawer.

 

Napoleon watched his partner scoot into the bedroom and smiled to himself as he glanced about the apartment. Illya had been entertaining, that much was evident. An empty bottle of wine and two glasses were still on the table, next to several items of his partner’s discarded clothing.

Napoleon tutted to himself. Illya could be so slovenly with his living space. He gathered up the bottle and glasses and took them into the kitchen, dropping the bottle into the waste bin and leaving the glasses in the sink. He went back into the living room and picked up the clothes, intending to drop them into the wash basket.

The moment he had Illya’s shirt in his hand, he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand to attention. He raised the garment to his face to get a better smell and all at once he knew who his partner had been entertaining. The Italian. What was his name? Di Mercurio.

Napoleon sniffed the garments again. The scent of this man was strong – and clinging to each piece of clothing that Illya had worn. He picked up a cushion from the sofa and inhaled. The scent was here, too. Di Mercurio had been in Illya’s apartment, sitting on his sofa, drinking with his partner and, maybe.... No! He didn’t want to think about that. Napoleon clenched his fists and took a deep breath, but the thought wouldn’t leave his mind.   Had they slept together? All the signs pointed in that direction.

This time his emotion wasn’t one of jealousy but concern. Did Illya know who – _what_ , he corrected himself – Allesandro was? Napoleon suspected not. It wasn’t something Di Mercurio would want to advertise. Prejudice was still rife, even in the swinging sixties, and the Count’s particular problem was an anathema to most people.

Allesandro Di Mercurio belonged to a race known as the Old Blood, a breed of human who needed certain elements found only in the blood of humans.

Napoleon _knew_ Allesandro was Old Blood. He _should_ know - for Napoleon was Old Blood too.

That’s how he had known about Allesandro. He had recognised him by his odor, could feel it in the cool of his handshake and the chill of his breath. The Italian had the smell of age about him; he’d been of the Old Blood for a long time. Napoleon was a tyro, still a baby in comparison to some, having been converted only five years previous.

People were afraid of their kind, and rightly so a hundred years ago, when they had to forcefully take what their bodies needed. These days, things were much simpler, the supplement easier to obtain without the risk of discovery or taking from another.

He couldn’t face Illya with the truth about the Italian, not without exposing himself. First, he would do a background check on this Allesandro. If he could discover something – _anything_ \- remotely criminal, then Illya would have to reconsider his relationship with this man.

Napoleon continued to tidy the apartment, and by the time Illya had dressed, he had made coffee and toast and managed to get his panic under control. Both men sat down to breakfast, avoiding the topic of Illya’s lover, and each keeping their secrets close to their chests.

 

Illya pushed aside the papers on his desk in frustration. His pen was missing; it was the third one this week. He’d be damned if he’d crawl to the secretary for yet another replacement.

He eyed Napoleon’s desk. The most obvious culprit and the most obvious hiding place. He opened the top drawer desk to search for his wayward pen and found a file tucked towards the back. Curious. Why would Napoleon keep hide a file in his drawer? Inquisitively, he withdrew the unmarked folder and flipped it open. On the top of a small sheaf of papers was a blown-up photograph of Allesandro exiting a building, obviously taken with a telephoto lens.

Lacking his usual finesse for timely arrivals, Napoleon strode through the door unannounced, his pace slowing to a stop as he recognized the file in Illya’s hand. “Ah,” he said, rather ineffectually.

“Is that all you have to say,” Illya demanded, waving the buff folder in Napoleon’s face.

Napoleon tried to turn the situation around. “No, that’s not all I have to say. If you’re in a serious relationship with this man, then you should learn more about him. You’re an agent for this organization and you know full well the risks you’re taking.”

“The risk is mine.”

“I’m talking about security. You know nothing about this man. As your superior, I’m concerned. I felt it was my duty to run a security check on Mr. Di Mercurio.”

“Your duty? And what, exactly, did you learn?” Illya asked, barely keeping his temper in check.

What had he learned? Di Mercurio had no nefarious connections, no shady deals with the underworld, nothing to connect him with any illicit activity. Despite digging deep, Napoleon had unearthed nothing of use against the man, not even so much as an unpaid parking ticket.

However, there was one fact he was certain of, and it was something he’d omitted in his report, for he had no way of presenting Illya with the facts without having to do some explaining of his own. Napoleon knew that this man was more than he appeared to be. He had known at their first meeting – no, from the time he’d smelled Allesandro on Illya’s clothes, that time in Sorrento – Allesandro was Old Blood.

“Well? What did you find?” Illya prompted impatiently.

“Your Count has several legitimate businesses, owns a private plane and a yacht and likes to spend an awful lot of his free time in nightclubs.”

“That isn’t a crime. You spend a lot of your time in nightclubs,” Illya pointed out.

Napoleon huffed in frustration. He knew this was going to be difficult. If the Italian had been Mafia, it would have made things so much simpler. “Illya, you can’t have a relationship with this man!” Napoleon insisted.

“Tell me why!”

“You’re an agent for this organization! You have certain responsibilities and obligations. An affair of… this kind, can ruin your career!”

“I’ll just toss it in the garbage then, shall I? Along with the rest of my life!”

“Now you’re being over-dramatic.”

“Am I?” He stepped closer to Napoleon until they were almost nose to nose. “Never pry into my private affairs again, Napoleon!” he hissed harshly. Illya turned, walking towards the door.

“Illya, you… you don’t know anything about this man. Or his kind!” Napoleon called.

Illya spun back towards him, his eyes narrowing at the implication “His kind?” He shook his head in disbelief. “I never thought you were a bigot, Napoleon.”

Napoleon shook his head. “That’s not what I meant….”

“What did you mean?”

Napoleon couldn’t answer. Defeated, he just stared silently at his partner.

After receiving no reply, Illya said, “That’s what I thought.” He turned and left.

 

Work took priority over all else in their lives, and their disagreement was forgotten when Waverly sent them to Killington, Vermont, along with Slate and Dancer, on another assignment. Two days later, mission successfully completed, New York’s four finest agents were sitting down to breakfast at one of Killington’s better hotels.

April Dancer was happy. They had completed their assignment and now they had the rest of the weekend off to do some skiing. She glanced around at her companions and smiled. She knew of several of U.N.C.L.E.’s females who’d give their right hand to be in her position right now, surrounded by three of the most handsome and eligible males in the business. She wiped at a drop of spilled coffee on her colourful jumper and returned to her breakfast.

Mark Slate, sporting a dark blue sweater that perfectly matched the bruise over his right eye, was ravenously hungry. The blows he’d taken in that last fight had done nothing to dampen his appetite. He glanced at his companions as he shovelled scrambled egg into his mouth, wasting no time on conversation. Besides, Napoleon and April were doing enough talking for all of them.

Napoleon’s attention was divided. April was always delightful company; bright, bubbly and intelligent. She commanded attention, even when his attention wanted to be elsewhere. Illya was being too quiet, even by his usual standards. In that last altercation, he’d taken a blow to the head before being dumped over a bridge into the freezing cold waters of the river. Thank goodness his partner had an iron skull and excellent swimming skills. Even so, Illya looked decidedly unwell.

Napoleon watched as his partner pushed his bacon and eggs around the plate from one side to the other. Appetite wasn’t usually a problem for his partner, but this morning he simply rearranged his breakfast without taking a bite. Finally, Solo asked, “Are you okay?”

Kuryakin looked up, startled from his preoccupation with the food before him. “Hm? Oh, just not hungry.” He put the fork on the side of the plate and reached for the orange juice, instead. He took a sip, pulling a face at the bitterness, before abandoning that, too.

Solo finished chewing his mouthful, before reaching up and pressing the back of his hand against his partner’s forehead. “You’re a little cool. Maybe you caught a chill after your dip in the river.”

The blond head pulled away from the unwanted contact. “I’ll be fine.” His fingers played with the edge of the table cloth. “I didn’t sleep well last night, my reflexes were a little slow today. That Thrush agent should never have caught me off guard like that.”

Napoleon had been thinking the same thing. Illya had seemed sluggish all day.

Illya pushed back his chair. “I think I’ll go back to our room and rest.”

Solo nodded agreement and watched with concern as the Russian pushed laboriously away from the table and walked from the restaurant.

Slate eyed Illya’s discarded breakfast a moment, shrugged, then lifted the plate and scraped it onto his own, ignoring April’s look of disgust.

Napoleon stared at his own plate a moment before setting his fork down with a sigh. His appetite seemed to have deserted him, too. “He took quite a knock to the head earlier. I think I’ll just go check on him.” He pushed away from the table and followed in his partner’s footsteps.

Slate looked at April and April, understanding his silent request, nodded. He picked up Napoleon’s plate and scraped the untouched bacon onto the growing pile. It seemed a shame to waste good food.

 

Napoleon slipped quietly into their room, noting that his partner had already closed the drapes to block out the bright morning sun and was sprawled out on top of one of the beds. As he neared his partner, the blond head turned. “I’m okay, Napoleon. Really.”

Napoleon sat on the opposite bed. “You don’t sound okay. You sound tired.”

Illya shifted to lie on his side. “I ache all over and my head hurts.”

“Maybe you’re coming down with the flu. I think you should check in with Dr. Bernstein when we get back.”

“I will.”

“Promise?”

“I said I would and I will,” he replied irritably before turning over onto his stomach and trying to sleep.

 

Dr Nathaniel Bernstein had witnessed many strange things in his lengthy career as an U.N.C.L.E. physician but few could compare to the rare sight of Illya Kuryakin walking willingly through his door.

Kuryakin was the most stubborn man he’d ever had the misfortune to treat. Obstinate, frustrating and unreasonable. He usually only came into the medical section on his back, strapped to a gurney.

But now, Illya stood before him, nervously examining the pattern on the carpet, while Bernstein eyed him over the top of his reading glasses. “Well, what a rare privilege, Mr. Kuryakin. What brings U.N.C.L.E.’s most reluctant patient to the medical section?”

“Nothing dire. Napoleon insisted I came.”

Bernstein silently praised the CEA’s courage. “And what seems to be the problem?”

“I’ve just been feeling tired, lately. Restless. I’m having trouble sleeping,” he added.

“Shouldn’t be a surprise to you, the lifestyle you lead. Things are bound to catch up with you, eventually.” Bernstein picked up a white gown and tossed it in the agent’s direction. “Clothes off: this on.”

The doctor had Kuryakin’s medical record out by the time Illya had changed. He gestured at the scales and Illya obediently stood on them. Bernstein slid the indicator along the gage as he glanced down at his notes. “Lost some weight since the last time.”

“I haven’t had much appetite, these last few days.”

Bernstein slipped a thermometer into his mouth and patted the examination table. His patient followed the doctor’s silent request and hoisted himself up on top, sitting motionless as a cold stethoscope was placed to his chest. “In,” the doctor ordered. Kuryakin took a deep breath and held it till the doctor gave the directive, “Out.”

He continued to breathe this way as the doctor moved the cold instrument about his chest and back. Once his examination of the Russian’s airways was complete, the doctor settled the stethoscope back around his neck and pulled the thermometer out from between his patient’s lips. The reading was apparently unsatisfactory: Bernstein peered at the result, shook it and put it back in Kuryakin’s mouth.

As Bernstein continued his physical examination, he asked questions. “Any nausea?”

“Some.”

“Pain anywhere?”

“No. Well, headaches. And some aches and pains in my muscles.”

Bernstein pulled down his lower eyelid. “You may be a little anaemic. Any blood loss recently?”

Illya cocked his head at Bernstein and the doctor laughed. “Stupid question with your occupation, I know.”

He pulled the thermometer back out again and frowned at the mercury reading.

“What’s wrong?” Illya asked, concerned by Bernstein’s puzzled look.

“What? Oh, nothing. Faulty equipment.” The doctor put on his most reassuring smile and scribbled a notation on his chart.

“That’s hardly comforting.”

“Let me do the worrying.” Bernstein turned and pulled out a syringe. “I want to take a blood sample.” He saw the agent tense. “Don’t give me that look. You should be used to the sight of your own blood by now. This will give us a good indication if there’s a problem. You can learn a lot from studying blood samples, these days.”

Illya turned his face away as the doctor inserted the needle and drew a phial of blood.

“There you go. All done. We should have the results back in a couple of days. I don’t think there’s anything to worry about. You probably picked up some nasty bug from that dip in the river. For now, I’m just going to give you an antibiotic. Roll over onto your stomach, please,” Bernstein said, brandishing another hypodermic.

Illya frowned, showing his disapproval. “Don’t you ever give these things orally?” he asked.

Bernstein smiled sweetly. “Where’s the fun in that?”

 

Napoleon paused in the corridor as Samantha, the new receptionist, passed by. She had a model figure and looks that could grace the front cover of any fashion magazine. He wondered why a woman with looks like that would take a job like this. The vision in front of him paled into insignificance as Illya walked into view.

“Hi.” He gently touched Illya’s arm. “Ah, let’s go to my office.”

The door closed behind them and Napoleon gesturing towards the couch, asking his partner to sit.

“How did it go with Bernstein?” Napoleon asked.   While Illya shifted uncomfortably on the couch, Napoleon busied himself at the coffee machine and poured them both a drink.

Illya took the mug, smiling at the image of Mickey Mouse emblazoned on the side. The mug had been a gift from April – for some reason it amused her to see him drinking out of it. He took a sip from the hot coffee and closed his eyes. Lord, but he was tired.

Napoleon wouldn’t let him rest. “Well? What did Bernstein say?”

“He thinks I may have a bug,” he said, stretching out the last word with distaste.

Napoleon smiled. “How do you feel now?”

Illya considered the question. How did he feel? Tired, aching and… that familiar hollow feeling that signalled hunger. “I feel ravenous.”

Napoleon’s smile widened to a grin. That was more like his partner. “Why don’t I cook you dinner tonight? We can stay in, watch some T.V. You can sleep over, if you like,” Napoleon offered.

Illya smiled, recognising the olive branch that Solo offered him. They hadn’t discussed that last altercation, when Illya had discovered the file in Solo’s drawer. They hadn’t had the time. And perhaps it should remain that way. They’d spent so little time together recently - Illya had been too preoccupied. He felt a little guilty about that. Perhaps it was time he paid a little more attention to his friend. “Why don’t I cook for a change?” he offered.

“You, cook?” Napoleon said, incredulously. He frowned. “Let me check my health insurance first,” he replied playfully.

“Idiot,” Illya murmured. The twitch at the corner of his mouth let his partner know the remark was teasing. “Say, eight o’clock? You can bring the wine.” Illya pulled himself upright, placed the coffee on the desk and walked to the door.

“I’ll be there,” Napoleon called after the retreating form of his partner.

 

Napoleon turned up ten minutes early. Anxiety had left him keen to see his partner, concerned for his well-being.

Illya let him in and returned to the kitchen, while Napoleon pulled off his jacket and draped it over the back of a chair.

“Sit down,” Illya called from the kitchen. “It’ll be ready soon.”

Napoleon followed the sound of his voice and stood for a moment in the doorway, smiling at the domestic scene. Illya, spatula in hand, stood with his back to him, fussing over a pan of gently frying onions, moving them about as though he were creating a piece of artwork. In the dim lighting of the kitchen, his friend still looked fragile to Napoleon’s eyes.

Illya turned, aware of his partner’s assessing gaze and, apparently, able to read his mind. “I’m fine, Napoleon. Pour the wine, dinner won’t be long.”

Napoleon reached up to the cupboard and took down two glasses. “How did you know what I was thinking?”

“I can read you like a book. The way you look, the way you hold yourself. Your eyes - they’re the most telling of all.”

Napoleon nodded. Illya had that uncanny knack, borne out of a close working relationship. And while Napoleon lacked Illya’s insight, Napoleon prided himself on knowing his Russian partner’s thought processes. It was what made the perfect working partnership and made them Waverly’s best team.

Napoleon moved back into the living room. The table had already been set. Napoleon took a chair at one end and set about opening the bottle. It took mere seconds and once done, he felt redundant. “Need any help?” he called.

“Nope. Everything’s ready.”

Illya appeared carrying a bowl of salad and placed it in the middle of the table. He went back to the kitchen and came back carrying T-bone steaks big enough to feed an army. “I hope you’re hungry,” Illya said.

“Hey, that’s usually my line.” Napoleon’s mouth began to water as he cut into the steak.

Illya smiled and set about eating his meal. Napoleon looked up as his friend cut into the meat on his plate. It looked barely cooked on the outside but once the knife had sliced off a chunk, the inside looked almost raw.

Napoleon scowled. “Since when did you eat your steaks rare?”

His partner shrugged. “Just recently. Someone suggested I try them rare.” He didn’t mention that someone had been Allesandro. “I wished I’d discovered it sooner. It really brings out the flavor of the meat.”

Solo watched, disgust on his face, as Illya cut off a chunk of semi-raw meat and swirled it in the bloody juices before popping it into his mouth. Napoleon had once developed a love for rare steaks, too, but Illya’s steak looked as though it had barely touched the bottom of the skillet. “Illya, that meat is hardly cooked. You could get food poisoning.”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Illya replied, popping another chunk into his mouth. His eyes closed with pleasure as the flavor hit his taste buds.

Napoleon tried to eat but his appetite had suddenly left him. He dropped his fork onto his plate. “I’m not being dramatic, I’m just pointing out…”

“Napoleon!” Illya said sharply, then tried to soften his voice. “Let’s not spoil things, hm? Eat. Enjoy. And later, I’ll thrash you at chess. Again.”

Napoleon picked up his fork again, determined not to rile his partner any further. They had only just become settled. And he had come here for a relaxing evening – and nothing relaxed him more than Illya’s company. “One day I’m going to show you how to play Parcheesi and then we’ll see who gets a thrashing.”

_3 days later, Mexico_

Illya glared up at the single, bright light bulb hanging in the center of the cell and sighed. It was too high to knock out, even if he had the energy to jump that high. He wrapped his arms around his bare legs and glanced over at his shivering partner. Both of them were naked and beaten, a typical part of Thrush tactics and ones they should be used to, by now. Sleep deprivation, physical discomfort, food deprivation, humiliation. This combination would eventually work, given enough time, but Illya was already formulating a plan of escape.

He moved nearer his trembling partner and rubbed a hand along his back, making Napoleon sigh. The temperature in the cell was mild at best and Napoleon was chilled. The drugs had left him torpid and soon it would be Illya’s turn for the needle, unless he found a way out of this prison before then.

But first, he’d need to get Napoleon into some semblance of working order, if they were both to get out of here alive. He needed warming and Illya knew only one way to do that. He pulled his partner up and wrapped his arms about him, pulling him in close. Napoleon struggled weakly. “No. You don’t have to…”

“We’re getting out of here, Napoleon. But first, you need to warm up.”

“I’m okay,” Napoleon protested weakly. Illya persisted, hugging his friend close to his body and sharing his heat. Soon, Illya could feel his temperature gradually rise as warmth pervaded Solo’s body. Something else seemed to be rising, too. He could feel the distinct hardness of Napoleon’s erection pressing against his side. He smiled to himself, thinking only Napoleon’s body could responded to naked flesh in a situation like this.

It was flattering, in a bizarre sort of way, that Napoleon would have this reaction to him. But maybe, his logic argued, it has more to do with the danger of the situation than the fact that your partner might be aroused by you.

Too much to hope for.

He heard a door go and footsteps echoing down the corridor towards their cell. He carefully released his burden and stood by the door, prepared for escape.

 

Napoleon had roused himself enough to aid Illya in bringing down their Thrush guard but in the process, received a small knife wound to the shoulder. When they finally found shelter, it came in the form of a small hotel on the outskirts of the nearest town.

Their luck took a downturn, however, when the clerk announced that they only had a room with a double bed.

“A double bed?” Napoleon asked, as though the clerk had spoken gibberish.

“We’ll take it,” Illya said, ever practical. He needed to check out Napoleon’s wound and they both needed to sleep.

In the room, Illya tore a pillowcase into strips and began cleaning up Napoleon’s wound, carefully washing off the dried blood and grime.

Strange, he’d never noticed before how sweet blood smelled. It was almost pleasant, syrupy...

“Illya?” Napoleon was watching him and Illya realised he’d paused in his ministrations.

“Sorry,” Illya murmured. The wound was quite deep and needed stitching. “I’ll just go to reception, see if I can borrow and needle and some button thread. Stay still till I get back.”

Napoleon, sprawled across the bed, was in no mood to argue. “No problem,” he muttered as he closed his eyes and allowed himself the luxury of succumbing to drowsiness.

 

Later, Illya found a take-out and ordered some food, while Napoleon tried to patch a call through to headquarters.

“Someone will pick us up in the morning”, Napoleon told his partner. “Why don’t we eat this then turn in? We both need to sleep.”

Napoleon was asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow.   The residue of the drug, Illya supposed. He often found it a test of his willpower, sleeping this close to his semi-naked partner. Napoleon’s body would often lose its warmth, once he’d fallen asleep. Sometimes it was like sleeping next to a corpse and Illya would long to wrap himself around the body to warm him up. But while Napoleon was awake, he was toasty and warm and enticing – which was equally inviting.

Illya thumped at his pillow, trying to get it into a comfortable shape to rest his head. It took time but eventually, sleep claimed him, too.

 

Illya was dreaming of the first time he’d been in a chocolatier’s shop in Paris. It was like nothing he’d ever experienced before; row upon row of chocolate bonbons, of every shape, color and size. He spent a great deal of his time and a good part of his small allowance in such shops, the first few weeks there, relishing the different flavours and tastes.

But the most overwhelming thing of all had been the smell. The aroma had gone straight to his brain, teasing the endorphins into action. The experience would stay with him for the rest of his life.

It was such a smell that drew Illya from sleep now, sweet and alluring, bringing his senses to life with a jolt, while his mind still slumbered. He lay, breathing in the delicious odor, its scent heady and delicious. He turned his head, seeking out the source.

Napoleon. He moved nearer the cool, sleeping form, attracted by the enticing aroma. He closed his eyes and moved closer, using his sense of smell to guide him. There, on Napoleon’s shoulder, a trickle of blood that had seeped from beneath the makeshift bandage that had shifted during Napoleon’s restless sleep.

Illya’s finger reached out, dipped into the coagulating blood, unconsciously fascinated by it, hypnotised by its spell. He was momentarily transported to his childhood, reminded of the pleasure he got from smelling his mother’s freshly baked bread. It had made his mouth water, just as the smell of Napoleon’s blood did now.

Hesitantly, he drew the finger into his mouth and sucked off the red stain. The flavour hit his taste buds like a discharge from a storm cloud.

Ecstasy!

The taste sizzled along his nerves and into the pleasure center of his brain. He shivered with delight, his cock filled with blood, as though he had been sexually stimulated. It left him painfully aroused and desperate to taste more.

Without conscious thought, his attention returned to his sleeping partner and he leaned near, wishing to repeat the sensations. His tongue poked out to slowly lick along the trail of drying blood until it stopped at the bandage. Napoleon shifted suddenly and groaned restlessly in his sleep, flinging an arm backwards towards him. Illya froze, and the contact seemed to shake him out of his trance-like state.

Suddenly, he was horrifyingly aware of what he was doing.

Blood! He was tasting Napoleon’s blood – and finding pleasure in it!

Sickened, he pulled away and jumped from the bed, jolting Napoleon into wakefulness.

“Illya?” Napoleon asked groggily as his partner disappeared into the bathroom. The door slammed shut behind the retreating form and Napoleon’s only answer was the sound of his partner retching. Napoleon pulled the covers aside and walked over to the door.

 

Illya stared at his reflection in the mirror. Blue eyes glittered back at him. He bowed his head, taking slow breaths to slow his heart rate down.

He jumped at the sound of Napoleon’s voice. “Illya? What’s up? Are you okay?”

Illya cleared the emotion from his throat before he answered. “I’m fine. I think that buritto I had earlier disagreed with me.”

“It wouldn’t dare,” Napoleon said with a smile. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yes. Go back to bed. I’ll be fine in a minute.” He glared at the image in the mirror. What the hell was wrong with him? He must be going out of his mind.

He rinsed his face with cold water, until he had wakened himself further, then returned to the bed. He slid in silently beside his partner but didn’t sleep for the rest of the night.

 

Bernstein turned away from his study of an X-ray as Napoleon Solo walked into his office. “Ah, Napoleon. You’re back, and almost in one piece, too. I heard you were wounded in your last assignment.”

“It’s nothing, really, but it’s a mandatory requirement that I get it checked out. U.N.C.L.E.’s insurers demand it.”   He slid off his jacket. “It’s not too bad, Illya took care of it. Put a couple of stitches in there.”

Bernstein snorted. “I’ve seen Illya’s sewing skills. He should take lessons from Del Floria.”

Napoleon smiled as he took off his shirt. Bernstein peered at the wound, pressing the delicate tissue around it. “How does it feel?”

“A little sore and…ow! And it hurts like hell when you do that!”

Bernstein winced. “Sorry. I’ll clean it up and put on a new dressing.”

Napoleon sat patiently as Bernstein swiped the area with some pink liquid, then turned to cut a length of gauze and tape. With his back still to Napoleon, Bernstein casually asked, “Um, how’s your partner feeling?”

“Illya? Well, for once he came away from this assignment unscathed.”

Bernstein laughed. “That makes a change.” Bernstein’s tone became serious. “No, what I meant was, how is he feeling in general”

The doctor turned back and pressed the gauze into place, securing it with the tape. Napoleon couldn’t help but wonder why Bernstein didn’t meet his gaze. “He’s been a little under the weather lately. But you know that. He came to see you.” There was a sudden doubt in Napoleon’s mind. “He did come to see you, didn’t he?”

“Oh, yes, yes.” Bernstein finished the dressing and helped pull Napoleon’s shirt back over his shoulders. He left Napoleon to dress while he opened a drawer and pulled out a blue file.

“About Illya… before you go, I think you need to take a look at this,” the doctor said, handing Napoleon a file. “I was going to drop it off later but seeing as you’re already here….”

“What is it?” Napoleon asked, eying the folder speculatively.

“It’s Illya’s medical report.”

Napoleon’s eyebrows rose in question. “I thought these things were confidential.”

“U.N.C.L.E. agents have no rights to confidentiality, you know that. I’m a physician for the U.N.C.L.E. and if I think there’s cause for concern, I have the authority to raise my concerns with the relevant people.”

You have concerns about Illya?” Napoleon frowned. If Bernstein was bringing this to his attention, things must be pretty grim. “What’s wrong? How bad is it?”

“Read the report,” Bernstein advised.

Napoleon could only stare at the blue folder, too afraid to open the report. “Can’t you give me the gist?”

Bernstein nodded. “Okay. As you know, Illya came to see me recently, said he’d been having some… problems. He asked me to give him a check over.”

Napoleon’s eyebrows raised in question. “And?”

“I took his vital signs, checked his temperature and did some blood tests.” Bernstein gestured at the blue folder. “The results are all in there. The reason I’m giving this to you, besides the fact that you’re his partner and friend, is because I’ve seen these symptoms before.” He shook his head. “I never expected to come across this again. Take a look.”

Bernstein took the chair opposite Napoleon and waited while the CEA flicked through the pages. Napoleon’s face became progressively grave as he scanned the papers. By the time he got to the end, his face was red with anger. Napoleon dropped the file onto the table with a little more force than was necessary.

Bernstein gave him a stern look. “In light of the results of my tests, I have to ask you something very personal.”

A little distracted, Napoleon nodded, giving him the go-ahead.

“Have you and Illya been involved in any… sexual activity?”

It took a moment for the question to sink in. “What?” He sat up, glaring at the doctor. “You think I’m the cause of this?”

“No not really, it’s just…” The doctor stopped, exasperated. “You know this… condition can be transmitted this way. It happened to you.”

Yes, it had, Napoleon reflected. He’d been unintentionally converted by his wife. Like most of the clan, she’d been loath to expose her true nature, even to her beloved husband. In the warm glow of new love, they’d had sex at every opportunity. When he’d become ill, she’d confessed to her shocked husband the truth about her nature. Stunned by the revelation, an angry Napoleon had lashed out verbally. They’d argued: she’d stormed out, taking the car. He learned three hours later that she had been in a fatal traffic accident. The guilt had weighed heavily on Napoleon. He felt responsible for her death.

He’d be damned if he’d be responsible for Illya’s.

It all made some sort of sense now, all the little pieces of the puzzle began to take form, creating an image Napoleon had feared – Illya was changing. And Allesandro was the cause.

Why hadn’t he seen it before? Maybe he had but he didn’t want to believe it.

He chewed on his lip. He had to talk to Illya, the sooner the better. Not that time would make any difference, not now. The damage was done, irreparably. Allesandro had seen to that.

“Damn the man!” Napoleon spat out angrily as he turned away.

“Napoleon, wait…” the doctor began. But Napoleon was already out of the door and, without thinking through his actions, already headed for Illya’s office.

 

Illya looked up as Napoleon strode through his door and quickly turned to flick on the privacy lock. When Napoleon turned back towards him, Illya could see that trouble was brewing. “What’s up?”

“Are you still seeing Allesandro?”

“That’s none of your business,” Illya replied hotly. He wished Napoleon would keep out of his private affairs.

“Are you?” Napoleon asked with more force.

Illya’s chin lifted a fraction. “No, not anymore.” It was a truth of sorts. Illya had been avoiding Allesandro’s calls. Since their last meeting, Illya had felt it necessary to put distance between the two of them. This much attention was overpowering. Illya was unused to being the focus of such adoration – and he found it all rather unsettling. Allesandro was too needy, too aggressive in his approach. This open display of emotion left a bitter taste in the Russian’s mouth.

Their last encounter had left him disturbed. Something had taken place that night, though Illya could not recall any details - and that fact worried him the most.

“When was the last time you saw him?” Napoleon asked.

Illya shook his head, perplexed. Why was Napoleon so angry? What was his problem?

Napoleon repeated his question, a tone of anxiety in his voice. “When was the last time you saw him?”

Illya shrugged. “Sometime last week.”

Napoleon moved nearer, grasping Illya by the upper arms. “Illya, I have to know. Did he take from you?”

“What?” Illya asked confused.

“Did he bite you, cut you, in some way?”

“No!” Bite me? Did he? There was another mark on his neck, after that last night. Things about that night had been strangely hazy. “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

“Did you notice if he cut himself? Did he give you anything to drink? Red wine, maybe?”

“Wine…?” Illya repeated.

“Anything! Anything he could conceal his blood in!”

“Blood? What are you talking about? I don’t understand… Napoleon, you’re hurting me!” Napoleon had him in a tight grip, shaking him with each question.

“Think, damn it! Did he give you anything to drink? Did he cut himself? Did he….?”

“Stop it!” Illya shouted, pulling away from Napoleon’s grasp.

Napoleon made a visible effort to calm himself, taking a deep breath before he approached his partner again. In his panic, he was starting to scare Illya and that wouldn’t help things. He took a step closer, raising a hand in a gesture of appeasement. “Illya, please. It’s important. The last time you met, did he give you anything to drink?”

There had been wine, hadn’t there? Allesandro had a fondness for wine. He’d brought Illya his favorite, a vintage brewed on the family estate. A farewell drink, he had said. _With this, you will have a part of me forever_ …. He didn’t remember any more about that night. One minute they had been sharing a bottle of wine and the next…the next he was waking up with a colossal headache.

Napoleon watched as the color drained from Illya’s face. “My God,” he muttered. “What did he do to me?”

Napoleon’s touch this time was gentle as he rested a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Let me take you home. We can’t discuss this here.”

Illya nodded his agreement. This was something bad, he could see it in Napoleon’s eyes. Whatever it was, he wasn’t going to like it. Whatever it was, he’d feel safer hearing it in the comfort of his own apartment.

 

“Vampirism? This is some sort of joke!”

Napoleon rubbed at his temples. He knew this was going to be awkward. His partner steamed up and down the same patch of carpet like a caged panther. “Illya, please sit down.”

“This is absurd, Napoleon. What you’re suggesting is ludicrous.”

“Illya, will you sit down?” Illya continued to pace, wringing at his hands over and over. “The doctor’s tests confirm…”

“Damn the doctor’s tests! They’re wrong!”

“Illya!” His partner stopped his pacing at last and looked at him. Napoleon sighed. “Sit, down. Please.”

The wind seemed to leave him suddenly: Illya dropped like a stone into the nearest chair. Napoleon pulled his own chair closer and leaned forward. “The doctor’s report isn’t wrong. He has experience of this… condition. You were infected by Allesandro.”

“Alle… how?”

“Allesandro is a member of a race known as the Old Blood. Periodically, they have to drink blood, their bodies need it. Vampirism, as you call it. They recruit new members into the clan by transforming them, making them like themselves. Usually, a person is embraced into the Old Blood with their consent, occasionally it’s by accident. I think Allesandro tricked you into it.”

Illya shook his head as the information finally sank home. “But why? Why would he do this?”

Napoleon shrugged. “With all his wealth and all his connections, he’s still a very lonely man.” It sounded like pity but Napoleon felt far from sorry for the Italian. “He hoped to take you away, keep you with him.”

Illya fidgeted in his chair, chewing a nail, running his fingers though his bangs. “How did it happen?”

“By exchange of blood. Somehow, you must have ingested his blood, in a drink maybe or in food. Once the exchange has been made, changes in the body begin. That’s why you feel unwell. Converting to the Old Blood is a slow process. It takes weeks to fully develop, physically.”

Illya looked up with a frown on his face. “How come you know so much about it?”

Napoleon looked suddenly uncomfortable, plucking at his bottom lip with his fingers. He knew it would come to this eventually. Now was not the time for secrets. He took a deep breath. “Let’s just say ‘kind recognises kind’. I was… accidentally transformed into the Old blood a few years ago.”

Misunderstanding, Illya’s eyes lit up with hope as he asked, “Then, there is a cure?”

Napoleon looked away, unable to meet his eyes.

“Napoleon? There’s a cure….?”

Napoleon looked at Illya, carefully announcing, “There is no cure.”

“But you said you….” Illya’s voice slowed to a whisper as understanding dawned in his eyes.   Illya stood and took a step away as if he’d had the breath knocked out of him. “You’re… you’re one of them?”

Napoleon remained seated, hoping Illya would feel less intimidated. “Yes.”

A mixture of emotions crossed the Russian’s face; confusion, anger, revulsion. Napoleon felt a mixture of sadness and regret. He could feel his partner slipping away from him, as though the connection between them had withered and died.

He needed to do something, to re-establish a link. Napoleon stood, intending to offer comfort but in panic, Illya turned quickly away and before Napoleon could reach him, he collapsed in a heap onto the carpet.

Napoleon knelt by his side, checking his pulse. It raced at a frantic pace. Illya had been running on adrenaline and the resulting strain had caused him to black out.

He carefully picked Illya up and put him to bed.

 

Napoleon was lying on Illya’s sofa, almost dozing, when a knock came to the door. He approached it cautiously and looked through the small spy-hole. The bile rose in his throat: Allesandro Di Mercurio. He quickly disabled the alarms and pulled open the door.

“What do you want? What are you doing here?” Napoleon demanded.

“I might ask you the same,” Allesandro replied, as he pushed his way past him into Illya’s apartment. “Where is Illya ?” he asked distractedly, as he glanced about, looking for the blond.

“Sleeping. He’s been ill. But then, you know that, don’t you.”

Allesandro headed towards the bedroom but Napoleon stepped in his way. “I said he’s asleep.”

Allesandro backed away. “Then I’ll wait.”

“Why are you here, Allesandro? Come to see how your handiwork’s progressing?”

Allesandro ignored the jibe. “He wouldn’t answer my calls. I was concerned.” He turned and walked towards the window.

Napoleon snorted as he stalked after the Italian. “So you should be. You put him in this predicament!”

Allesandro spun to face him. “Predicament? I have probably saved him.”

Napoleon’s mouth gaped at this man’s gall. “Saved him? From what?”

“From you, from your organization. There, he was just a puppet, a pawn to be sacrificed for someone else’s cause.”

“Illya fights for what he believes is right.”

“And who are you to say what’s right? Who are you to interfere?”

“I’m his partner, his friend.”

“And I’m his lover. Who has a greater claim?”

Napoleon’s eyes narrowed in anger. “You talk about him as though he were a piece of property, a pet.” Allesandro blinked at the comparison, recalling a similar comment Illya had made.

“I know I can offer him more. What can you offer him?”

“Friendship. Love. But not your kind of love, and not at the price he’s having to pay.” Napoleon laughed bitterly. “You think he cares about your money? Possessions mean nothing to him. Illya’s needs can’t be bought. What he needs is to work, to know that what he does in his life will make a difference.”

“He doesn’t need you or your organization, he has a new life now.”

“He hasn’t finished with the old one, yet! And if you think Illya will just pack his bags and fly off into the sunset with you, you’re sadly mistaken.”

“I think that’s for him to decide. He’s a grown man, he can make his own choices.”

“Can he?” Napoleon snapped. “I think you’ve already taken that decision from him.”

Allesandro ground his teeth in fury. “Well, let’s ask him, shall we?”

He started to walk back in the direction of Illya’s bedroom but was stopped by a tight grip on his shoulder. Napoleon acted purely out of anger. As Allesandro turned, Napoleon’s fist lashed out and caught Allesandro’s chin. The Italian went down, a look of shock on his face. “Keep away from him!” Napoleon snarled. “Haven’t you done enough?”

Allesandro rose to his feet, his hands going up like a prize fighter’s. Napoleon stood guard in front of the bedroom door, an immovable object. “You’ll have to fight me to get past me,” Napoleon said.

“I happen to believe he’s worth fighting for!” Allesandro swung his arm round but the experienced U.N.C.L.E. agent ducked the blow with ease. The second attempt missed Napoleon’s chin by inches, taking the Italian’s arm in a wide arc. Napoleon took the opportunity to get the man in a shoulder lock, pushing him up against the wall.

Napoleon held the Italian in a tight grip, and hissed in his ear. “You had no right to do this to him. Above all else, lllya fears losing his identity.”

“He will understand!”

“Will he? What you did to him was obscene!”

“I don’t have to explain myself to you!”

“No? Then try explaining it to Illya!”

“Try explaining what to Illya?” Both men had been so engrossed in their altercation that they’d failed to hear the bedroom door open. Illya stood there, rumpled and pale, his face tense and angry. “Explain what, Allesandro?”

Napoleon released his hold and Allesandro faced Illya. He held out a hand as if to touch, but withdrew it when the icy glare told him it would be an unwise move. “Illyusha, what I did, I did for you. For us,” he amended. “I have given you a gift, Illyusha, that so few are offered.”

“You made no offer. You forced this on me.”

“Let me explain--”

“Get out,” Illya ordered quietly.

“Illyusha, please--” Allesandro pleaded.

“I said get out!” Illya snapped, his voice shaking with anger.

Allesandro shoulders slumped. “We shall talk later,” he promised, as he obediently turned and left the apartment.

Napoleon turned to his partner, who stood shaking with temper. “Illya, I really think--”

“You too.”

Napoleon frowned. “What?”

“Get out! I want to be alone!”

Napoleon was reluctant to go, leaving Illya in this distressed state but to stay would only cause him more anxiety. Napoleon picked up his jacket and left.

 

_Five days later_ …

Nathaniel Bernstein paused outside the apartment door of Illya Kuryakin and prepared himself for hostilities. He rapped briskly on the wood and after several silent moments, he knocked again, longer and firmer.

“Who is it?” Illya’s voice called impatiently.

“It’s Dr. Bernstein.”

“Go away!”

Bernstein sighed. It was only what he’d expected. “I can do that if you wish, but then I’d have to inform the department’s psychiatrist that you were being uncooperative and that you’d locked yourself in your apartment and refused to see anyone.”

He wasn’t sure it would, but the threat worked: there was a pause, then all at once the locks clicked and the door slowly swung open a crack. Bernstein pushed it open the rest of the way and walked in. He refused to feel guilty about his threat. As petty as it sounded, it usually got him what he wanted.

Illya was seated in a chair by the fireplace, his arms crossed defensively over his chest. Bernstein sat on the sofa opposite, refusing to be cowed by the volatile Russian’s glare.

“Nobody’s heard from you for five days.” Illya didn’t respond, so Bernstein carried on. “You haven’t returned any phone calls and you’ve switched off your communicator. Napoleon’s frantic: Waverly’s asking questions. He knows you’re sick but I can only stall him for so long. Tell me, are you intending to return to work sometime or did you plan on locking yourself away in you apartment for the rest of your life. Which, incidentally, may be a very long time,” Bernstein finished quietly.

Illya’s guarded body language slackened a notch as Bernstein talked. His arms unfolded to grip the rests of the chair. “Yes. It’s just that… I need a little time.”

Bernstein nodded. “I understand. This has come as quite a shock to you.”

Illya laughed but not with humor.

Bernstein pinched the bridge of his nose. “Illya… I know this is no consolation, but you’re not the first person to go through this.”

Illya’s stare turned towards Bernstein. “Napoleon?” he asked softly.

Bernstein nodded. “It came as something of a shock for him, too. He went through the same process of denial that you’re going through.”

It was the truth, Illya realized. He had been denying this. If you didn’t acknowledge it, it wasn’t true. He still didn’t want to think about it, though.  

Curiosity got the better of him. Illya asked. “How did you find out about Napoleon?”

“Like you, he came to see me because he felt ill. I did some tests but couldn’t figure out what was wrong with him, I just knew that his metabolism was changing but I didn’t know why. When I told his wife, she broke down in tears and told me what she was. She’d been afraid to tell him and…” Bernstein paused, his face lined with regret. “And I encouraged her to talk to him about it. When she did, I’m sorry to say that, like yourself, he didn’t react very well. They argued, apparently she left the house and took the car. Three hours later, she was dead after colliding with a truck. Napoleon was devastated. Mr Waverly gave him compassionate leave and he spent most of it drowning his sorrows in clubs and bars.”

Illya felt the stab of guilt in his chest. He knew Napoleon’s wife had been killed in a car crash but Napoleon had never spoken about the circumstances leading up to the accident. But then, he wouldn’t, would he? Self-pity asserted itself as Illya asked, “What does that have to do with my situation?”

Bernstein shook his head in frustration. “Do you think Napoleon chose this life? He was a casualty, too. Accidentally infected by his wife. He’s had to learn to live with it and you will learn to live with it, too.”

Illya snorted. “Adapt or die?”

“That’s pretty much your choice, and I know you don’t want to die. You’re a survivor, Illya, I’ve read your background history.” Bernstein leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “And when you think about it, what’s so bad? You’ll live longer, your sense of hearing and smell will improve and…well, from what Napoleon tells me so will your sex-life. You won’t need to go hunting people down to get what your body needs. This is the twentieth century - there are other means. The one advantage you have over Napoleon is that you have someone to talk to, someone who has already gone through this process, someone who can give you guidance. You should make good use of that.”

Illya seemed to deflate, sinking into his chair.

Bernstein waited for a reaction and when none came, he checked the time on his watch and rose swiftly. “I have to go. Bernice is throwing a party for the in-laws and I promised to be home by eight.”

Illya didn’t look up. “Call Napoleon, would you? At least put his mind at rest. He’s worried sick about you.”

Illya still didn’t stir. “Well. I’ll see myself out, shall I?” Bernstein said, walking to the door. It was the best he could do, under the circumstances. The rest was up to Kuryakin. Bernstein stood outside the agent’s apartment door and rubbed at his neck. Great! He was getting a tension headache.

 

Napoleon picked up the bottle of bourbon and paused with it in his hand. He knew he shouldn’t, he’d been depending on the anaesthetizing effect of this spirit for far too long and far too often, lately. It was time to face his demons without this crutch. He had to face this alone.

Alone? Without Illya? That thought was unbearable.

How ironic, Napoleon thought. He had wanted Illya for so long, ached to hold him, dreamed of kissing him, but fantasies had been all he’d allowed himself. Fear had been stronger than desire. Fear of changing Illya had been the sole reason he’d never made a move on his friend.

And now that it was no longer a barrier between them, Illya no longer wanted to know him.

Napoleon stared at the bottle in his hand but refused to give in to its lure. Alcohol wasn’t going to solve his problems – it hadn’t in the past - and it certainly wasn’t going to bring Illya back to him. He put the bottle back on the bar and picked up a tonic water, instead.

He’d just emptied the contents of the bottle into a glass when a short rap came at his door. Napoleon put the glass down and went to answer it. It had to be someone he knew. April probably, playing mother-hen, he thought, unconsciously smoothing down his hair.

The last thing Napoleon expected when he answered the knock at his door was to find his partner standing there. Illya looked pale and gaunt and impossibly thinner than the last time Napoleon had seen him almost a week ago.

Napoleon stood a few moments, stunned into silence, before shaking himself out of his trance. “Illya. Come in.”

“Thank you,” Illya murmured, sliding quietly past his partner. Napoleon took the polite response as a good sign and felt his depression ease a little.

He took the opportunity to study his friend as Illya walked around the room, studying Napoleon’s knick-knacks as though it were the first time he’d seen them. Illya was gaunt and hollow-cheeked, his skin pale and translucent, reminding Napoleon of the photos he’d seen of the Belsen Camp victims.

“Why don’t you sit down before you fall down,” Napoleon told his partner. Illya nodded and collapsed limply onto the sofa. Napoleon took the chair opposite and regarded his friend carefully. The weight loss and wan complexion made Illya’s eyes look impossibly large and the dark smudges only served to emphasize them more.

“You look like hell,” Napoleon said.

“Thank you,” Illya replied, dryly. “I feel like hell.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Yes. No.” Illya sighed. “I don’t know.” He closed his eyes and rested his head against the back of the sofa.

Napoleon leaned forward. “Illya, I can help. I know what you need. Do you still trust me?”

Illya sank against the pillows, devoid of energy. “Do I trust you?” He looked up at Napoleon. “You didn’t trust me enough to tell me about your… condition.”

“How could I?” Napoleon smiled. “‘Oh, by the way, Illya, did I mention I was a vampire?’ How would you have reacted?”

It was a fair question and one Illya didn’t have a fair answer to, now the boot was on the other foot. He shrugged in reply and was relieved when Napoleon stood and gave him some space.

“I’m going to make you something to drink. You’ll feel a lot better after you get something in your stomach,” Napoleon said.

Illya’s eyes followed his partner’s movements as he walked into the kitchen but the rest of his body remained still, too tired to move. The ride over here had been exhausting and now his energy reserves were all but gone.

He could hear Napoleon moving about the kitchen, the click of a cupboard door as it was opened, the clank of a pan being set on the oven top and the soft ‘whump’ as the gas was lit on the burner.

Illya moaned to himself. Napoleon was warming something. At a guess, it would be milk or chicken soup. Napoleon was forever extolling the curative virtues of these two food items, knowledge passed onto him by his doting Aunt Amy, no doubt.

It wasn’t long before Napoleon returned, sitting on the sofa next to him with a mug in his hand. “I want you to promise me you won’t pass judgement until you’ve tried this.” He held the mug hesitantly towards the Russian.

“What is it?” Illya asked, taking the tepid mug from Napoleon’s hand.

“It’s, erm….”

“Blood,” Illya finished, as he looked down at the red liquid in the mug.

“Yes. And it’s really not bad, Illya,” Napoleon said hastily. “I know you’ve tried worse. Those fried grasshoppers in Mexico? And in Australia, there were those… witchety grubs,” Napoleon said, his lips curling in disgust. “You ate those alive.”

Illya smiled at the memory. He hadn’t enjoyed the grubs but he did get a great deal of pleasure out of seeing his partner turn green as he watched Illya put the fat, squirming creatures into his mouth.

This was different, though. This was human. And Napoleon apparently kept a supply in the kitchen right along with the rest of his groceries. A thought suddenly occurred to him. Illya looked up at his partner, suspicion furrowing his brow. “Where did you get this?”

“Never mind.” Napoleon sighed, seeing his friend’s reluctance. “I didn’t mug some old lady on the street, if that’s what you’re thinking. There are other… sources. It’s perfectly legitimate. I’ll take you there in a couple of days, when you’re feeling up to it.”

Illya looked down at the mug’s contents. This was strange: normally Illya was nauseous at the sight of blood, even though he saw it more often than he’d like to. Now, it held a strange appeal. It was aromatic, seductive. Illya took a tentative sip and almost gasped as the flavor hit his tongue and went straight into his bloodstream, like strong liquor. He swallowed down the saliva that threatened to flood his mouth and took a bigger mouthful. Then another…

Illya felt heady, he felt good. No, he felt better than good: he felt wonderful, he felt energized, he felt… Oh, my… He glanced down at the bulge in his pants and heard Napoleon laugh.

“I should have warned you about that. I’m afraid you get that reaction at first till you learn to control it. That’s if you want to control it,” he said with a smile. “Once you get more accustomed to it, I’ll wean you off onto the artificial stuff. It’s a little lacking in flavor but insipid food never seemed to stop you before. And it’s cheaper, which should appeal to your penny-pinching ways.”

“I’m frugal, Napoleon, not penny-pinching,” Illya explained. He stared down at the half-empty cup, his hunger appeased for the first time in days. “This isn’t bad. Where did you learn about this stuff?”

“By accident. One night, a month or so after my wife’s death, I was in this bar when I was approached by a beautiful young lady....

_Napoleon could smell her as soon as she neared, though he didn’t yet understand why. He hadn’t recognised the perfume but the scent had seemed familiar, comfortable, reminding him a little of his wife._

_“Hello handsome,” the brunette had said. “Buy a sibling a drink?”_

_Sibling? Napoleon had thought it a strange term to use at the time. This beauty wanted company and who was he to turn away a pretty face, especially as he was in need of company himself. It couldn’t hurt to be polite. “Sure,” he replied, gesturing towards the bartender. “Come here often?” he asked her. It was a tired line, he knew, but he wasn’t feeling up to par and the effort to impress just seemed too much._

_“Occasionally.” She held out a hand. “My name’s Lilah.”_

_“Napoleon,” he replied, briefly shaking her hand._

_“So, Napoleon, I don’t remember seeing you here before. It’s a rare privilege to meet one of our kind.”_

_“Our kind?” He watched her as she withdrew a gold cigarette case and fitted one of the slim cigarettes into a holder. She placed it between ice-white teeth and waited patiently as Napoleon flicked open his lighter and set a flame to it. She inhaled deeply before turning her attention to him. She leaned close and whispered, “I could smell you as soon as I walked in the door, sugar.” She’d frowned at Napoleon’s puzzled expression. Was she talking about his cologne?_

_Lilah was looking at him with concern. “You don’t look too good. What’s wrong, are you hungry? Haven’t… eaten for a while? I have something at my apartment, if you want. It’s just down at the end of the block.”_

_Napoleon realized he was hungry. His stomach had been unable to keep much down lately but it hadn’t been the hollowness that normally accompanied a lack of food, it had been something intangible, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. A gnawing ache that left him feeling nauseous and fatigued._

_Her hand was resting on his sleeve, drawing his attention back to her. She was looking at him with concern._

_“You’re new to this, aren’t you, sugar? Did nobody give you instruction?” She tutted and suddenly, his pretty companion pulled at his sleeve. “Let’s get out of here. I have just the thing you need.”_

_Napoleon had followed her home, as meek as a lamb, and learned the greatest lesson in his new life._

“Lilah saved my sanity that night. I don’t know how long I could have gone on without sustenance.”

Illya frowned. “How long can you survive without it?”

Napoleon’s brows knitted together. “I’m not sure, exactly. You could survive for quite a while but you start to feel unwell, like you did. I usually imbibe about once a week.” He shrugged. “Everyone’s different, I guess.” Napoleon gestured to the mug. “Had enough?”

Illya drained the remaining liquid and passed him the cup. He felt relaxed, sated, almost back to normal. He watched languidly as Napoleon took the emptied mug back into the kitchen. When Napoleon came back into the room, he said, “Listen, Illya, I think you should sleep here tonight. Just to make sure you’re alright.”

“Okay.”

Napoleon was surprised by Illya’s cooperation. He usually balked when Napoleon fussed about him. “Why don’t you take the bed. I’ll camp out on the sofa,” Napoleon said, pulling the cushions off the back to make more room. “You’ll find pyjamas in the second drawer in the bedroom.” He watched his friend spring from the sofa, a little more energized than he was earlier, and head towards the bedroom.

“Goodnight,” Illya called over his shoulder.

“Sleep tight,” Napoleon replied.

 

Napoleon wasn’t asleep; he couldn’t sleep. So much had happened in the last couple of weeks, so many things had changed for his partner – which in turn, meant changes for himself. What would happen in the future? Would Illya stay? Would he leave U.N.C.L.E. and their partnership behind? A million such questions buzzed around his skull, making sleep impossible.

His thoughts were interrupted by the soft footsteps of his partner creeping past.

“Illya?”

Illya was silhouetted against the moonlit window. “I’m sorry, I was just getting a drink. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t. I was just lying here thinking.”

“A dangerous occupation for a man in a dangerous occupation.” Illya moved nearer and sat on the edge of the sofa at Napoleon’s feet.   Napoleon sat up, giving him more room.

“I can’t sleep, either,” Illya told him. “I’ve been thinking, too.”

“A dangerous occupation….” Napoleon quoted back. His eyes were beginning to adjust to the darkness. Illya looked almost childlike in Napoleon’s oversized pyjamas with his hair all mussed up. All he needed, Napoleon thought, was a Teddy bear tucked under one arm.

“I’ve been wondering,” Illya continued. “What happens now? With us? With our partnership?”

Napoleon felt relief wash over him. He should have expected that Illya would have the same concerns as himself. It was reassuring to know that he was still in tune with his partner’s way of thinking.

“Nothing changes. Not if you don’t want it to,” he said, his hand stretched out to stroke along Illya’s arm. The contact was a comfort and the fact that Illya didn’t pull away this time, heartened him. He kept his hand there, feeling the connection between them re-establish itself. “You change your life style a little, that’s all. Life goes on, pretty much the same.”

“But what if people find out?”

“They won’t find out. You didn’t know about me, did you? Incidentally, it’s not common knowledge and I’d like to keep it that way.”

Illya understood his reluctance to go public; the very idea was appalling. “Who else knows about you?”

“Besides Dr. Bernstein? Just you and Mr Waverly.”

That Waverly knew was a surprise. Something occurred to Illya. “Is Mr Waverly… one of your kind?”

Napoleon couldn’t help but be amused by the question. “No,” he replied with a wan smile. “Even if he does seem like a blood-sucker at times.”

Illya leaned against the back of the sofa, his head slumped to his chest. “I can’t believe Allesandro did this to me.”

“He was obsessed with you, to the point where he was prepared to do anything to keep you by his side.” And I can understand that.

“I must have been blind. I thought he was a good man.”

“He’s a parasite, living off the life of others.”

“So do you. I mean, we,” Illya amended. Napoleon smiled. Illya was starting to readjust, as he knew he would. His partner was the most resilient person he knew.

Illya ran his fingers through his hair, pulling at the fine strands in frustration. “What am I going to do?”

Napoleon leaned closer, turning Illya’s face towards him with gentle pressure. “You’ll go on,” Napoleon said, his hand tilting Illya’s chin up so he could see the blue eyes. Napoleon felt his heart pitch and roll. “I know you, Illya Kuryakin. You’ve never let anything defeat you in your life. You’ve met every challenge and overcome it, no matter how difficult.”

Illya pulled his legs up and wrapped his arms around them, resting his chin on his knees. “Tell me more about it. Have you ever…you know,” Illya asked, tapping a fingernail against his teeth.

“Bitten anyone?” Napoleon seemed to consider the question carefully. Then he nodded. “Occasionally, but only during sex. Some people find it very erotic. But if I have a choice, I’d prefer to take my sustenance elsewhere. The risk is too great.”

“Didn’t they mind?”

“Did you?”

Illya considered the fact, remembering the rush of sensual pleasure that he’d got during sex with Allesandro.   “No, not really. It felt… good.”

“That’s the saliva, it has a narcotic in it. It acts like an aphrodisiac.”

Illya nodded, as if this made sense. “That’s why you’re so successful with women,” he teased.

Napoleon elbowed him in the ribs. “Well, it’s not the only reason. I do have other redeeming qualities, you know.”

“Hm,” Illya said, sounding unconvinced. Napoleon punched him lightly on the arm and Illya smiled. It was nice, talking like this, sharing these relaxing moments together in much the same way they had before.

Before things had changed their lives forever, for Napoleon knew that something had changed between them, now there was no need for secrets any more.

“What else?” Illya asked, warming to the subject now he was comfortable.

“Let’s see… body temperature. Your metabolism will start to slow down and you’ll feel cooler. As they grow older, the Old Blood become cold to the touch.”

Allesandro had been quite cold, Illya thought. He’d explained it as an inherited defect. The older you get, the colder you get….For the first time, he wondered just how old Allesandro was. He put the man out of his mind and concentrated on what Napoleon was saying. “That’s one good thing about sex,” Napoleon said enthusiastically. “Arousal heats your body, generates warmth. It adds to the pleasure of sex.”

Illya seemed to consider this new information about their kind, a look of puzzlement on his face. Napoleon said their temperature was lower, cooler, but that wasn’t right, was it? Sometimes, Napoleon had been cold but not all the time. Illya could recall many occasions they had shared sleeping quarters, even bunking in the same bed. His partner had definitely been warm then.

Napoleon saw the confusion in his eyes. “What?”

Illya looked at him. “I’m not sure I understood the part about body temperature. When we’ve shared a bed together on assignment you were wa….” he began. He words slowed to a stop as Napoleon’s face reddened. What was it he’d said about generating warmth? Arousal heats the body…. When he thought about it, Napoleon had touched him on rare occasions but only a brief hand on a shoulder or a quick tap on the elbow, thick clothing between their contact. In bed, Napoleon had stayed to the edge of the mattress, avoiding close contact. Even so, Illya had felt the warmth emanating from him.

“Oh,” Illya said quietly, as realization set in. “Now I understand.”

“Do you?” Napoleon’s hand dropped away from its resting place on Illya’s arm. He was risking a lot with his next question but it had to be asked. “Do you understand me when I say that I love you in the way a man isn’t supposed to love another man? Do you?”

Stunned by the question, Illya slowly shook his head in disbelief. “I never knew,” he whispered.

“And you probably never would have. I tried not to get involved with you emotionally, it was too dangerous and I… loved you too much to risk changing you. If we’d started an affair…” He shook his head as he struggled to explain. “In our line of work, we’re too prone to injuries and if we’d had sexual relations there would have been too much of a risk of accidentally exchanging blood. I couldn’t take that chance, not with you. Do you understand?”

Illya nodded. “Yes.” He straightened up, turning to face Napoleon. “But now….?”

Napoleon’s brows rose. “Now?” Napoleon repeated, a puzzled expression on his face.

“Well… it seems a moot point, doesn’t it?” Illya asked.

Napoleon stared at him, hardly daring to hope that he hadn’t misunderstood Illya’s words. Was Illya giving consent? Did Illya want him as much as he wanted Illya? Napoleon’s heart began to pound in his chest. “I guess it is a moot point, at that,” he said slowly.

Illya laid a hand on top of Napoleon’s. “You’re cool now,” he said, sounding disappointed.

Napoleon smiled crookedly. “Well, paisley print flannel pyjamas aren’t exactly conducive to arousal,” he replied, fingering the soft material covering his friend’s arm.

“Ah.” Illya nodded slightly, as if this made sense. He leaned forward and lightly pressed his lips to Napoleon’s. He felt Napoleon quiver and raise his free hand to rest on Illya’s shoulder, using it to draw his partner closer.

They continued to kiss until Illya could feel the rise in temperature in Napoleon’s hand. He pulled back, a pleased smile on his face. “Now you’re getting warm.”

“Uh-hm,” Napoleon said in agreement, as he pulled Illya back into his arms. Napoleon couldn’t recall the number of times he’d fantasized about this moment. Just to be able to kiss that beautiful mouth, touch Illya’s skin without fear of giving himself away.

“Are you sure about this, Napoleon?” Illya asked, his insecurity coming through in his voice.

“Illya, I’ve wanted this for such a long time.”

“It’s just that, that time in Rio, when we got drunk and I…” Illya was blushing. “I made that suggestion to you….”

Napoleon covered his lips with a finger. “Shh. Forget about that time.”

“But you said you didn’t want me.”

Napoleon’s heart melted hearing Illya’s insecurities. “No, love. What I said was that it was impossible for us to be together. You assumed I was talking about sex.”

There was something else he wanted to tell Illya, something relevant he should know. Napoleon pulled away from the kiss. “Just one more thing I should to tell you - sex between a Blood and a human can be good, but sex between two of the Blood can be, ah…what’s that hippie expression? Oh, yes – mind-blowing.”

“Really? In what way?”

Napoleon shrugged. “It’s hard to put into words. It’s something you need to experience.”

Illya moved closer. “Oh? Show me.”

Napoleon’s hands caressed his friend’s face. “Nothing would give me greater pleasure….” Napoleon stood, taking Illya’s hand and pulling him up off the sofa. “However, I think we should take this somewhere more appropriate, don’t you?”

“You’re the boss - who am I to challenge your orders?”

“That would be a first,” Napoleon murmured, good naturedly.

Napoleon led him into the bedroom, releasing Illya’s hand to pull down the sheets on the bed. He turned to look at Illya and felt as though his heart would stop at the sight. Illya stood in the centre of the room in his oversized pyjamas, his hands clasped together, perched on one leg as the other rubbed up and down the back of his calf. It was an endearing sight. Illya was nervous: it was up to Napoleon to put him at ease.

Napoleon sat on the end of the bed and patted the space next to him. “Why don’t you sit here?”

Illya obeyed, sitting close enough for their thighs to touch from hip to knee. Napoleon rubbed his leg against his friend’s and slipped his arm around the pyjama-clad shoulders, rubbing Illya’s back in gentle, soothing circles.

“Okay?” Napoleon asked.

Illya gave a short laugh. “I don’t know why I feel so nervous. It’s not like I’d never done this before.”

“Well, you haven’t, not with me.” Napoleon leaned forward and briefly kissed him. “So, this will be like a new experience for both of us.” He let his hand glide down Illya’s chest, fingering the buttons on the jacket. “Shall we get rid of this?”

Napoleon descended through the line of buttons one by one until Illya’s top draped open. He eased it off the pale shoulders and shifted closer to nuzzle along the side of Illya’s face, rubbing cheeks like affectionate cats, scenting, tasting, feeling the heat rise in the body next to him. Illya’s head went back, exposing his neck and Napoleon shivered as saliva flooded his mouth in anticipation. He knew Illya was offering, giving him permission, but it was too soon and he did so want this to last at least a little longer.

He guided Illya gently backwards onto the bed and covered his body with his own.

Illya pulled impatiently at the undershirt Napoleon wore, tugging it over his friend’s head before latching onto Napoleon’s mouth for another kiss.

He felt fingers tease his nipples, then slip down to caress his ribs, glide across the flat planes of his stomach and settle on the top of his pyjama bottoms. Illya pushed up his hips, allowing Napoleon to tug the redundant garment off.

Napoleon paused to gaze down at him and Illya was humbled by the expression of love he saw in his face. He closed his eyes, trying to control his own emotions. Soon, he felt Napoleon’s mouth following the same route his hands had taken. Illya felt his legs gently parted as Napoleon settled between them. He held still, breathlessly waiting his partner’s next move, then shivered as Napoleon’s hair tickled lightly along the inside of his thighs, while Napoleon’s lips planted soft kisses along the sensitive skin towards his groin.

Napoleon’s cool breath sighed across Illya’s erection, making him tremble all the more but it wasn’t Illya’s cock that Napoleon took into his mouth. Illya’s breath caught in his throat as Napoleon lips surrounded one of his testicles, gently mouthing and sucking on the egg-sized sac, while his hand gathered up the other and tenderly squeezed and stroked it. Illya reached down, resting his hands on Napoleon’s head, an anchor in a wild sea of emotions. Napoleon’s oral attention went from the velvet sacs to Illya’s cock, already erect and moist at the tip with pre-come.

“Oh…oh….” Illya cried out as he was tongued, swallowed and masturbated by Napoleon’s mouth and pliant tongue. He rode out the erotic torture for as long as he could and when he could feel his orgasm threaten to explode, he tugged on Napoleon’s hair to draw his attention away from his eager cock. He tugged the mussed hair again and this time Napoleon followed his direction and slid back up the warm body for a kiss

The kiss was deep, hungry, filled with all the unspent passion that had built up between them over the years. Illya would have been happy for it to go on forever but he was near to the edge of orgasm and he did so want to come while his lover was inside him.

Illya rolled over, presenting his rear for Napoleon, and sighed with satisfaction as Napoleon pressed against his back. Napoleon’s hands stroked and caressed their way around his body, moving a leg here, placing an arm there. Illya lay passively wherever Napoleon positioned him, slightly on one side, with one leg bent to allow Napoleon easier access to his cock and ass.

Napoleon paused in his touches a moment, but soon his hands were back, softly caressing the round globes of Illya’s ass. A finger followed the hidden crevice and went unerringly to the small pucker there. His finger was laden with a cool gel – the reason for the temporary halt in proceedings, Illya realized – and slowly inserted past the tight ring of muscle. There was no pain, Illya wanted this too much, was too eager to tense up against the intruder.

He moaned and wriggled as Napoleon finger-fucked him and when the invader rubbed along his prostrate, he almost came. He pressed back, feeling the hard prod of Napoleon’s cock between his upper thighs.

"More," Illya gasped, unable to articulate his needs, reduced to uttering monosyllabic words as his command of the English language fell into disarray. Words were superfluous, overrated at a time like this. "Now," he demanded.

Napoleon slipped his finger out and grasped his cock, lining it up with the slick entrance to Illya’s body. He pressed forward and felt the muscle give. Napoleon had to pause, not for Illya’s sake but for his own, as his breathing threatened to give out altogether. He took several deep breaths, slowing his heart rate down, and pushed his cock deeper, in short, gentle thrusts until he was buried all the way. The tightness squeezed along his length as Illya, unable to remain still, began to ride his cock.

Napoleon fucked him as slowly as he could but his arousal was becoming painful. His hands tangled in Illya’s hair and gently coaxed the blond head back and to one side. Illya felt the chill of his breath breeze along his neck, kissing and nipping, preparing for another penetration. Illya’s hand reached up behind him to rest on Napoleon’s head, urging him closer, giving his permission. He felt Napoleon’s arms tighten around him and felt a scrape against his skin, the sharpness of a blade edge pricking his flesh, entering him as intimately as Napoleon’s cock had. Illya gasped as Napoleon’s saliva entered his blood stream and coursed through his veins like a rip tide.

Napoleon begin to suck carefully at the breach, drawing the life-giving fluid into his mouth. It was the most erotic feeling he’d ever experienced: with each mouthful, he was taking in a part of Illya, Illya was becoming a part of Napoleon, coursing forever through his veins. And very soon, Illya would have a part of Napoleon inside him, too. It was a joining, of sorts. A bonding of two souls. The sensation was almost overwhelming. Napoleon stopped taking and started fucking, plunging harder and faster into the willing body as he tugged on the Russian’s cock.

The pressure to come was building, a dam ready to burst. He so wanted Illya to climax at the same time. “Come with me, love,” he said, jerking Illya’s erection in rhythm to his own thrusting cock. “Let me feel you come.”

Illya cried out as his passion erupted with painful intensity into Napoleon’s hand. It seemed to go on for eternity, jet after jet of sticky fluid, emptying him of his passion. At the same time, he felt Napoleon’s body stiffen, as his rhythmic pounding became erratic and convulsive in climax.

Napoleon sighed and his movements slowed as the last of his semen emptied into the body of his lover. Then he lay, still joined by flesh that was reluctant to leave its warm shelter.

It seemed like a lifetime that they lay together, both enjoying the calm and serenity that surrounded them, enclosing them in an impenetrable bubble of peace. Nothing could touch them now. Nothing could part them again.

They both dozed and when they woke, it was a beautiful morning.

 

Napoleon slowed the car to a halt as they pulled up in front of the Pierre Hotel. He set the hand-break and turned towards his partner. “Are you sure you don’t want me to come up with you?”

Illya could understand Napoleon’s concern but this was something he had to take care of himself. This would be his last visit with Allesandro, to wrap this affair up, once and for all. What was it Bernstein had called it? Closure?

“I’ll be okay,” he told Napoleon. Illya started to get out of the car and paused. “Though, if I’m not back in an hour, you have my blessing to call for backup and storm the hotel.”

“Don’t think I won’t,” Napoleon called after his friend as he got out of the car.

 

It was a sorry sight that greeted Illya when Allesandro came to the door, a face full of hope soon to be shattered. Illya walked into the room and stopped Allesandro’s advance with a firm hand in the centre of his chest. “What I’ve come to say won’t take long, Allesandro. I am here to say goodbye.”

Allesandro stepped back, rubbing at his forehead, a sign of his anguish. “Illyusha, can’t we talk about this?”

“There is nothing to talk about. What’s done, is done. I have accepted what you have turned me into. Now you must accept that it is over between us.”

Allesandro’s hands reached out, imploring. “I made a mistake--” Allesandro said.

“A mistake I’ll pay for, for the rest of my life!”

“I thought it was for the best--”

Illya’s eyes sparked with anger. “For who? For you?”

“For us.”

Illya shook his head. “No, Allesandro, there was no ‘us’.” He looked the Italian over, assessing. “Everything you did, you did for your own reasons, to satisfy your own needs. You are nothing but a spoiled child, selfish and egotistical.”

Allesandro winced at the words and shook his head. “I’m so sorry. Illyusha, can you ever forgive me?”

Illya studied his ex-lover’s face for a moment. “No,” came the simple reply.

Allesandro should have expected that response – it was what he deserved, after all. His jealousy had blinded him into believing he could manipulate his lover – he should have known it was an ill-fated task. Illya was different. He was independent, strong-willed and principled. _What a fool I’ve been!_

As Illya turned his head, Allesandro noticed for the first time a hint of discoloration in the skin just above the neck of Illya’s shirt. He reached out a finger and gently pulled the collar down. The evidence hit him in the gut like a rabbit punch. “No,” he whispered. “Solo… you and he….?”

“Yes,” Illya replied honestly. “So, there is something I should thank you for.”

Allesandro looked away defeated. This was the end, then. Solo had taken the prize that Allesandro had so clumsily allowed to slip through his fingers.

“He is a lucky man, to have someone like you, Illyusha. I hope he appreciates it.”

Despite himself, Illya felt a tinge of pity for this man. “You will find someone else, Allesandro. You have time and money on your side.”

“But I won’t have you.”

“You never did have me, and you never shall. You made a mistake in thinking I would be swayed by the promise of long life. It’s not how long you live, it’s how you live it that matters.” Illya glanced at his watch, knowing that Napoleon would be doing the same.

“I must go.” He turned and walked towards the door, pausing half way across the room. He looked Allesandro in the eyes and said, “Do not send me gifts, do not phone me, do not try to contact me at all. Do you understand?”

Allesandro’s shoulders slumped. “How can I possibly go on without you, love?”

“You will learn, as I must learn to live with this… ‘gift’ you have given me.” He took an intimidating step nearer, almost touching Allesandro as he whispered, “What you did was unconscionable and I have killed men for less. Consider yourself lucky.” He allowed his former lover to see the menace he usually reserved for his opponents.

Illya turned and as he opened the door, Allesandro called, “Illya… if there is ever anything you need….?”

“I have everything I need.”

Allesandro realized the truth in Illya’s statement. Yes, Illyusha was lucky – he had everything he needed; a friend, a protector – someone who would love Illya as much as Allesandro did.

“Goodbye, Illyusha.”

“Goodbye, Allesandro.”

Then Illya was gone.

 

He found Napoleon pacing anxiously by the side of the car and smiled to himself. It was nice having someone who cared and worried about you. Not in the way that Allesandro had cared. That had been a form of suffocation, an obsessive love. Allesandro could never understand Illya, if it had taken them into the next century – which was possible, if Napoleon was telling him the truth about the benefits of this condition.

No, he could never trust the Italian. Not like he trusted Napoleon. Napoleon could have done the same but he respected Illya too much. Respected his wishes, respected his independence.

Napoleon understood him. Napoleon understood Illya very well, and that made Illya feel safe and protected and… loved.

Napoleon looked up and smiled as Illya approached.

“How did it go?” Napoleon asked.

“Relatively painless. I think he got the message.”

“Good. I’d hate to have to pay him a visit, some time,” Napoleon replied. He pulled open the passenger door and grandly gestured Illya inside. “Your carriage awaits, m’ lord.”

Illya inclined his head and winked at his partner before sliding into the seat. He turned to Napoleon as he slipped in beside him and, with hooded eyes, suggested, “Let’s go home.   I’m hungry.”

Napoleon smiled. “And I think I have just the thing to fill you up.”

“I doubt that,” Illya said playfully. “My appetites are pretty insatiable.”

“That sounds like a challenge.”

“Think you’re up to it?” Illya asked.

“Up to it? Oh, I will be, Illyusha, I will be,” he laughed.

“Napoleon?”

“Hm?”

“Don’t call me Illyusha!”

Napoleon grinned. No, he would find his own pet name for his lover. What does one call a blond, cantankerous, fireball of a Russian?

His mind considered the possibilities as he gunned the engine and turned the car towards home.

**THE END**


End file.
